


Selfish, But Not

by grandfatherclock



Series: Hey Nonny, Nonny! [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Community: widojest love, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: “Do you remember what we agreed, when that archmage stole everything, and Mama and I became poor?” She runs a hand through her hair, and exhales through her teeth. Her hand that isn’t around her holy symbol is digging slightly into her knee, grounding her.… I do.He still sounds careful, but also a little proud.“No more hiding.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “No matter how… easy. No matter how… much I want it.”





	Selfish, But Not

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tambuli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambuli/gifts).



> Dedicated to Julia! SMH, have some revenge fic :)
> 
> This is for the Widojest Week prompt FAIRYTALE.
> 
> The 'implied/referenced abuse' tag refers to references to canon-type abuse in Caleb Widogast's backstory. This fic is rated explicit for overt sexual content.

Jester hums under her breath, tying up her curly hair behind her head. It’s a _mess_ , and _gods_ , she needs to properly comb that shit. Normally, the thought of her fucked up hair, and the gusts of wind pushing against her walls, and some of her paints dried over because she forgot to put them in their proper containers, would’ve pissed her _off_ , but she can’t manage to keep that grimace on her face. She looks over to the red hair strewn over her pillow and _beams_.

Bren is _here_. Bren stayed over last night for the first time, and he’s _here._ Her eyes rake over his still body for a moment—he looks so damn _young_ when he isn’t being smug, when his entire body isn’t coiled like a snake while somehow remaining languid. His breathing is slow, and Jester’s eyes trace over the scars on his arms, along his sides—they’re without stories, and it… it scares her. The things she doesn’t know about him scare her.

Jester searches through her closet to distract herself, and pulls out a yellow dress—it’s nice, and it has frills, and if Jester tries _really_ hard, she can ignore how obvious the stitches look from last summer, when she was running and tore it along her side. She can ignore how it’s a little faded, and a little simple. A little girlish. She sighs, wincing slightly to herself at _girlish_ , and pulls it on over her body. She grimaces as it stretches a little against her chest.

There’s the sound of her bed creaking, and she looks back, with wide eyes. Bren’s sitting up, running a hand through his disheveled hair, and he blinks at her, his eyes slightly bleary. She smiles shyly at him, and after a moment, he gives her a hesitant smile back. “Lavorre,” he murmurs, eyes tracing over her.

Jester flushes, realizing her dress is unbuttoned from the back. “Isn’t this so _pretty_?” she squeaks out, and then grimaces—why did she bring attention to it? This is like pointing out the parts she hates the most in her art—the shit that looks nice to everyone else, but whose splotchy, unintentional nature makes Jester _burn_ with embarrassment. _Failure_ where other people see purposeful ambiguity. Gods, she should just point out the uneven framing of the wooden panels along her door and walls, or the broken window she keeps putting off fixing in the—

Bren gets up, distracting her frantic thoughts. He puts on his undergarments and then his black trousers, before looking back to her curiously. Walking over to her, his movements less clipped in the morning as he’s still forcing himself completely awake, he turns her around. Jester widens her eyes as Bren begins buttoning up her dress. “I really like it,” he says. His voice is also slightly off-kilter, slightly rough, and Jester thinks she could get addicted to him in the morning. He’s… he’s _cute_ like this, and she isn’t excited for his careful gaze to set in. Bren rests his head against her shoulder, and Jester stills as they both look in her closet.

“I, uh.” Her face burns. She knows objectively that being poor isn’t something she should find embarrassing, and that Bren _gets_ it, he says he comes from the dirt, but _still_. His clothes probably cost more than Mama’s finest necklace. “I don’t…” Jester’s voice trails off again, and she anxiously bunches up her dress in her hands.

“Those boots are nice,” Bren says, pointing to a pair that’s brown and worn. His arm goes through the bit of space between her own arm and her body, and he’s so _warm_ , this close to her. He’s practically a _fireplace_ , and _oh_ , wouldn’t _that_ be a sight—Bren with half his face lit in firelight, the other half engulfed in shadow _._ “They’ll go well with your dress, I think. Were you thinking of going with another pair?” His voice is casual, curious— _the lord without the shackles of his pompous cape_ , she thinks.

Jester _flushes_ at his interest. “Well, I mean, they’re _really_ cool, though. Like, the _best_ boots in the entire world.” Her words are a little shaky by the end of that last sentence, a little uncertain, but from how he sways just slightly, he’s most certainly too tired to notice.

“Probably better than mine,” Bren says, and he doesn’t _sound_ like he’s indulging her. She can feel his chin on her shoulder, and something in her chest kind of _flutters_. “Boots you can actually work and walk in, though I suppose I don’t do much besides administrative work.” His arm that was absentmindedly pointing in her closet curls close around her waist, and Jester is realizing they’re pressed against each other. His warm body against hers is _something_ at night, something _special_ —but the morning is a different beast, and she’s a blushing mess.

“Well, _you_ wouldn’t wear them,” Jester mutters, feeling very small. She wonders why the _fuck_ she’s trying to disrupt this gentle peace in her room, but she actually thinks she kind of _knows_ why—because as kind as he is behind closed doors. She’s… she’s kind of bitter that he’s only this kind _behind closed doors_. Her heart clenches painfully, and she remembers his words from that painful day, when he confessed his attraction to her. _I’m not going to… change. I’m not going to improve_. Oh, gods. Oh, Bren. Jester’s face wants to twist. _No one really does, not for me._ He won’t let there be a trace of her dirt on him, just a trace of her poverty, not when there’s prying eyes around. Jester is his shameful secret.

There’s a time when Jester might’ve lied to herself, and considered it romantic. It might’ve been last night. It might be a couple hours from now. Who the _fuck_ knows, her heart is weak and fickle.

Bren lets go of her, feeling her shift in mood, and she picks out the boots before closing her closet. She winces at the loud _thud_ the door makes against the doorframe, and gives Bren a bright, dizzying smile. He stares back at her, his gaze searching. _Ah, there you are. Lord of the Zemni Fields. I was almost starting to miss you._ The bitterness of Jester’s own thoughts kind of alarms and surprises her. “Do you… do you have to leave, soon?” Her voice is light.

Bren furrows his eyebrows a little, walking away from her to pick up his pretty, expensive clothing off on the floor. Jester almost suggests he use _Prestidigitation_ on them, and blinks in dismay at her own bitterness. “I should,” he says. “There’s an ambassador passing through the Zemni Fields, and I have a meeting scheduled with her this afternoon.” He buttons his shirt up, and Jester watches the scarred skin disappear behind the glittering mirage. “My”—he stills a little in the way he tends to when he’s weighing how much to tell her—“people are very insistent I make nice with them. Come from an important family, apparently.”

Jester shoos him away playfully, feeling guilty about where her mood has shifted. She pushes on his shoulders until he’s out her door, and he lets out this startled little half-laugh, still buttoning up his vest. She grins despite himself. “Then _go_ , I need to _pack_ for Rexxentrum!” She giggles. “It’s my _second_ job with the same client, she _really_ likes me.”

“You deserve it,” Bren says, managing to balance on his feet outside her room. He looks up to her, and his face begins to become composed in that way it tends to be around others. He runs a hand through his hair again, straightening out. She watches his calloused, burnt fingers in that beautiful red, and then averts her gaze as he pulls out his leather gloves and pulls them over his hands. “Will I see you again, before you take for the road?”

“Maybe,” Jester mutters, her jaw shifting slightly. _If you have time to sneak out before tomorrow_. 

“Jester.” Bren sounds uncertain, standing there in the hallway of her house’s second floor. His gloved hands adjust his shift collar as he thinks. He thinks quite a bit, Jester is discovering, and he rarely shares what goes on in that racing head of his. She thinks they might have this in common. “Are you…” Jester waits for him to finish his question, an eyebrow raised, but he lets his question trail off, and shrugs on his suit jacket. He examines her with his cool blue eyes, and the transformation is complete. Jester leans against the doorframe as he tilts her chin up with a gloved finger. She sighs into the kiss, and then he’s _gone_.

Jester closes her eyes and tilts her head, listening momentarily to the creaking of the stair steps as he walks down, down, _down_ , and then out the door.

She waits there for just a moment longer, and then continues to pack. If she takes a moment to grab her pillow and breathe in the smell of incense and ink, no one is there to judge her.

* * *

Bren ignores the way his guards exchange this look as he pulls off his leather shoes, scuffed with dirt from walking along the dirt road while he was under _Disguise Self_. He picks out a different pair absentmindedly and scowls to himself. The sun was sweltering, but it was a short walk, and he’s spent too much of his life travelling and trekking discreetly— _the air filled with the putrid smell of burning flesh, his face dripping red, Astrid leaning against his stumbling form_ —to be bothered by the distance. “Has the ambassador entered Blumenthal?” Bren demands, perched on his bed and putting on the new shoes.

“Ten minutes out,” the guard says, his helmet held by his arm and pressed against his side. He scratches the nape of his neck awkwardly, the loose red and purple armour chinking around his movements. Bren scowls at him, and the guard stills, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, my lord.”

Bren exhales through his teeth, and adjusts his cape slightly. _Testing me_ , he thinks, his jaw shifting slightly. _The world is testing me, and I’m ready. I’m always ready._ He gets up and gives himself a cursory glance in the mirror. His pale blue eyes look back at him, and he examines his features—his hair is coiffed, and his coat is all buttoned up, and he looks _alert_ , ready, a far cry from the rumpled mess he was this morning. He stills for a moment, thinking of Jester’s body pressed against his own, and then shakes his head. He can’t be so easily distracted by her flushing freckled neck and smell of cinnamon. He _can’t_ , he has important things to do.

Bren sighs, and exits his room, walking down the hall and staircase. His boots click against the hardwood, and the guards shuffle and pan out into their proper positions in the manor behind him. He finally enters the common room, and then the main hall. Bren walks out the opulent double doors that encompass the entrance of the manor, and leans against the railing as he waits for the ambassador.

His gloved hands clench on his handhold, and he tries to quiet down his racing thoughts. The sun beats down on him, on these endless rolling Zemnian fields, and he can see small houses at a distance, the shapes of farmers tending to their crops. He watches for a moment, his gaze cold and considering. Bren remembers the feeling of dirt under his fingernails, of going to bed hungry, of the walls creaking, and _he doesn’t_ _miss it_.

It was… strange, waking up in Jester’s room. For a moment, he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy that he was just another man, unimportant to the cloying politics of Rexxentrum and archmages, that his arms weren’t scarred and the bag cinched to his belt wasn’t pull of components that are made to ruin. Jester was _right_ , he wouldn’t wear those boots—not that there was anything lacking in them, they’re well-made and sturdy, not unlike what he would see his mother wearing when she came back into the house, her face sweating and her clothes dirty—but because he lost too much _trying to escape them_. He can’t… he can’t lose himself here. Not after his hands are burnt to hell and he can barely look at his bare body in the mirror. He can’t lose his resolve _now_.

The sound of hooves against the smooth pavement distract him from his wallowing, and he looks up, to see two horses pulling forward a carriage. It’s this beautiful, almost geometric-seeming black and purple design, and there’s a crest along one side. Bren recalls from the report Master Ikithon passed onto him that the symbol of the dodecahedron along the side represents the mysterious deity the Kryn worship—this strange being known as the Luxon, the Lord of Light. The ambassador is from an important family with close ties to the Empress Leylas Kryn, of Den Theylas, and he just needs to simper to them, and then get to _more important manners_ _…_

Bren stills for a moment, his gloved hands clenching against the railing. Since when did Jester become more important than his _job_? He’s being pathetic, letting her freckles and paint-stained knuckles and faded yellow dress take his attention off his obligations. He feels dread in his stomach— _anything he has can be just as easily be taken away_. Hasn’t Master Ikithon taught him this? He’s gone five years without a tuning session, he’s letting himself get feral. Bren allowed himself to forget, and he’s being very, very foolish.

A couple exit out of the carriage, and Bren straightens his back as he watches them. A man comes out first, holding what seems to be a _baby_ carefully in his arms, and then he lifts out a gloved hand, helping down a woman in a suit. She has pinned back hair, and when she lifts her head to look at Bren standing there on the patio, she gives him a respectful but sheepish smile, walking up the steps with her husband and child following suit behind her. “Lord Ermendrud,” she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Frau Theylas,” he says, a pleasant smile playing languidly on his lips. He raises a hand, and she reaches out to shake it, her grip firm. He examines her with a considering tilt to his face—dark skin, curly black hair, dark brown eyes, her skin darker around her neck and cheeks as she flushes a little with embarrassment. “It’s an honour to meet you at last.” His voice is smooth, charming, earnest. His gaze might be a little bored, a tad languid, but this is mostly just a vanity visit after all.

“Oh, believe me, the honour is all mine.” Her voice is smooth but careful, and her dark eyes watch him with this calculating expression. “Please call me Brada.” She turns to the man, and gives him a soft smile. “This is my husband Dinin.” Bren nods at Dinin, and then looks to the child clapping his hands together and shaking this red rattle almost _violently_. “And _this_ is Zeerith.” The baby looks to the woman as she says his name and _squeals_. She turns to Bren, and winces. “I’m sorry, I just realized my letter to you didn’t mention my child. My husband can take care of him as we discuss practical matters.”

Bren looks to the child, who beams back at him. “That’s… no trouble,” he says, slowly. Brada looks slightly relieved at his understated reaction, and Bren wonders exactly how much of an asshole he’s made out to be outside the Zemni Fields. The thought brings a smile to his lips. “Please, come in. Your child is adorable.” Not a lie, but his gaze is disinterested on the giggling baby, whose gaze immediately fixates on his embroidered gloves. Bren turns to leave, lest the baby begins to _fuss_ over his desire to chew Bren’s expensive clothing.

Brada smiles and follows him into the manor. Bren leads them into the common room, and he hears Dinin murmuring in another language to the child, who coos back at him. The sound of the rattle interrupts the solemn silence of the manor, and Bren resists the urge to wince. The Theylas family sits together on the other couch, the baby clapping his hands together as Brada shifts to look at Bren. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, Lord Ermendrud,” she says, her hands clasped together on her lap. “You’re much younger than the other lords and ambassadors I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” Her voice is careful, her insinuation deniable if he chooses to take offense.

Bren gives her what he knows is a gentle and open and inviting smile. _Oh_ , she’s clever. “And you’re also much younger than the previous ambassador to the Kryn Dynasty.” He watches her face. “I hope you don’t mind me asking—I thought positions in your country are based off seniority?”

Brada tilts her head, her eyes considering. Deciding what to tell him. It hardly matters, Bren doesn’t care much for this simpering smalltalk—it’s _humiliating_ how much his mind is still somewhat on canvases and rattling walls. “It is,” Brada finally says, “but fortune favours the bold.” She shoots a smile to Zeerith, and to her husband quietly shushing the child. “Dinin’s support has been everything.”

Dinin looks up to her, and his face is… complete, unfiltered adoration. It fills Bren with this sick feeling of _longing_ , and he can intimately feel the itch of his rough skin against his leather gloves. He’s… gods, does he even truly care for Jester, if he’s… if he’s…  _I’m not going to… change. I’m not going to improve_. His pathetic moments he finds in between his life like copper coins between the cushions of his couch as a child are _nothing_ compared to the brightness in this man’s eyes.

This fluttering feeling in his stomach isn’t… it isn’t enough. Not enough to change. Not enough to improve. Not enough to _sacrifice_.

“We’re a team,” Dinin says tenderly, his voice breaking through Bren’s thoughts. It’s so _fucking_ gentle, and Bren finds himself averting his gaze. Dinin looks to Bren curiously. “Do you have someone in your life?” His curly hair frames his handsome face well, and his eyes are open, and curious, and _genuine_ —

“No,” Bren murmurs, and he looks to Zeerith. The baby smiles at him, letting out this gentle giggle and shaking his rattle, and he feels something like a loss. _Ah_ , he thinks, a little bitterly. “I’ve always been… always been too busy with work for something like that.” He thinks of Wulf, and Astrid, and blood caked under his fingernails, and the experiments, and the revolution. He thinks of blowing up monarchists into fiery ashes, Astrid standing beside him, them supporting each other by leaning against the other’s body. He thinks of the careful backroom deals that gave him this post in the Zemni Fields. He thinks of Master Ikithon’s hand on his shoulder.

“Oh,” Dinin says, embarrassed. His eyes glit to Brada sheepishly, and she shoots him a gentle if _pointed_ smile back. “I didn’t mean to keep you two from your work. I’ll entertain the child, while you two can discuss what you need to discuss.”

Bren gets up, and Brada follows his lead. “We can talk in my office,” he murmurs, his voice a little dispassionate. Brada raises an eyebrow at his flat tone, and he shoots her a charming, deceptive smile, before turning to Dinin. “Ask any of my attendants for anything you may require.”

He begins walking in the direction of his office, and after a moment, Brada follows.

* * *

Jester waits for Bren in her living room, her packed bag beside her as she bites her bottom lip anxiously, and he doesn’t come.

He doesn’t come, and she doesn’t cast _Sending_. She simply wipes away the embarrassing tears leaking out of her eyes, and gives her mother a watery smile. “I’m going to _miss_ you,” she says, pretending the moisture in her eyes is solely from not being to see her mother for two weeks. _Fuck_ Bren Aldric Ermendrud. _I should’ve figured I was ruined from the second you came in_. His self-pitying voice, with that heated gaze, pacing in her house as he asked her to have him. Oh, that _fucker_ — _she_ ruined _him_? She’s so fucking _sorry_ his unfortunate attraction to the local village idiot makes him ache. There was a man, the last time she visited Zadash, who asked her out on a date, and she _rejected_ him. Over this fucking affair. _Fuck_. Tears continue to spill down her cheeks, and she wipes them away aggressively.

“I’ll miss you too,” Marion says, leaning against the doorframe. Her lovely red hair frames her brown skin so _well_ , and Jester wishes she could inherit her grace. She wishes she could be elegant in her poverty, she really does. Marion’s eyes trace over Jester anxiously, and she gives her a weak smile. “Be _careful_ , okay, darling? I know things went well the _last_ time, but… I used to live in Rexxentrum, and some people might—”

“I’ll be _careful_ , Mama,” Jester says, giving her one last hug. She blinks back her tears, and pulls back, waving back to her mother as she walks down the dirt road. “I love you, Mama,” Jester calls out loud, and Mama blows her a kiss.

Jester looks firmly ahead, and feels herself already sweating uncomfortably in the heat. She gives the middle finger to the sun glaring down at her, and continues to walk. Her hand sinks back down, and she begins to absentmindedly play with her pendant her Mama gave her. The metal is slightly cool against her skin, and she sighs, making her way to the corner of the road where carriages typically await. There’s only one today, and the man leaning against his horse raises an eyebrow at her scuffed boots and worn dress and paint-stained hands, sighing as she approaches. “I need to go to Rexxentrum,” Jester says, and _hates_ how his eyes rake over her. She’s already gone _through_ this with other drivers and merchants, she wishes there was someone here she already proved herself to.

“Thirty-five gold,” he drawls, looking utterly bored with her. He runs a hand through his hair, looking at her like he’s waiting for her to shoo away at the amount of money he just demanded.

Jester frowns, biting the inside of her cheek. “But the other man charged _thirty—_ ”

“Look, lady.” The man straightens up, giving her an even, indulgent smile. It makes her flush with fury, clenching her hands beside her. “If you can’t _afford_ it—”

“I can afford it,” Jester interrupts, and her stomach drops as she hands him the extra five gold. It isn’t like they’re struggling as much as they were before, but they need every _fucking_ copper they have. The only thing keeping her from complaining more are the facts that he’s the only one who can take her where she needs to go, and that he looks about five seconds from demanding more money out of her. And that she’s fucking _heartbroken_. Gods, if only she had Bren’s silvertongue —a lot of things would’ve turned out easier for her, he practically _skips_ through life sometimes.

The man doesn’t help her up into the carriage, and Jester makes a face at him, crawling up and sitting inside. She sits, bunching her hands in her dress, and looks out the window as she feels the carriage beginning to move. It’s a good half-day to Rexxentrum, and after she paints a small dick on the worn wood, she leans back and begins to think. It’s too rickety to risk trying to paint here, but she’s a little lovelorn, and that lends itself to dreams.

_Bren is kissing her. He’s kissing her on her mouth and down her neck and her sternum, and his lips are searing against her freckled skin. He looks up, and gives her this bright and beautiful smile. “Oh, Jester,” he breathes. His voice is a little uneven. “I think I want you more than I want to be a lord.”_

_“Huh?” Jester furrows her eyebrows at him, and tries not to look too hopeful. “But Bren…” There’s_ nothing _you want more than to be a lord._

_Bren comes back up, and she feels his clever fingers undoing the straps of her dress. “I don’t care what my people want.” His voice is certain and accented and dark. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care—”_

Jester opens her eyes, and sighs. This is… kind of _pathetic_. She’s making a charlatan out of him, twisting his memory in her head into something uncomplicated and bright and easy to love. Jester knew from the second she realized her flirtations with him were genuine that she was opening herself up to a world of hurt. She knew… she _knew_ she would never be his first priority. He comes from the dirt, and he doesn’t want anything to compromise his position. Certainly not an… not an affair with the daughter of the disgraced _Ruby_. Marion Lavorre, who lost everything because she rejected an archmage, and then some.

Jester wonders what she’d do if being with Bren interfered with _her_ career, and her stomach kind of drops. It _does_. Maybe not with being a _painter_ , but with being a priest, a _cleric_. She hasn’t done anything for the Traveler in a _month_ , and her gut twists uncomfortably, her grip on the cloth of her dress tightening. What has _he_ done that’s even remotely comparable?

Jester _scowls_ , and her hands find her Traveler symbol hidden in her bag. _I’m sorry_ , she thinks, a little furiously. _I’ve been stupid._ She lets out a shaky exhale around that final word. _I’ve been stupid, and I’ve forgotten what’s important._

She feels ethereal arms around her, pulling her into an embrace, and Jester closes her eyes, leaning into it. _Darling girl_ , the Traveler breathes, and his deep, playful voice makes her smile despite the emptiness in her chest. He sounds a little sad on her behalf. _I don’t want you to get hurt._

“A little late for that,” Jester says, softly. She scoffs a little to herself, and sighs, looking outside the window. The endless fields of wheat shift with the wind, malleable and surrendering to the elements. Jester clenches her jaw, and straightens her back. “Traveler.” Her voice is lilting and uncertain, even to her own ears.

_Yes, Jester?_ His voice is careful, but not indulgent—it’s her favourite thing about him, that he takes her fucking _seriously_.

“Do you remember what we agreed, when that archmage stole everything, and Mama and I became poor?” She runs a hand through her hair, and exhales through her teeth. Her hand that isn’t around her holy symbol is digging slightly into her knee, grounding her.

… _I do._ He still sounds careful, but also a little proud.

“No more hiding.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “No matter how… easy. No matter how… much I want it.” Bren’s face, reverent as she feels his talented lips against her neck and her breasts and lower still, merciless until she’s moaning and throwing her head back, her hands straining against her threadbare blanket. _No matter how much he makes me want to._

_I’ll help_. The Traveler sighs, and Jester thinks if she could see him he would look a little helpless. His arms are a little uncertain around her. _It will be risky._ His voice is warning, almost _pleading_.

“I know,” Jester says, feeling her restlessness coil inside her like a spring ready to snap. “I think we have to, you know?” She sighs, and rubs her neck. She feels her pendant, and smiles bitterly to herself. No more wearing jewelry for one man. She’ll look gorgeous for all of Rexxentrum.

The cart races, and races, and _races_.

* * *

Bren sits in his office, looking over old reports. He frowns at the summons on his desk, at that familiar signature under the fine print. Master Ikithon requires a meeting with _him_ … dread builds in his gut, and he sighs, putting his elbows on his desk and running his hands over his face. _Scheisse._ Whenever Master Ikithon wants an _audience_ with him, it’s… it’s never good. It always costs something. He’s been getting better about… about making his sacrifices matter, about worming his way out of the consequences of the bargaining and squabbling of the archmages in Rexxentrum, but… 

Bren shakes his head to himself, his jaw shifting slightly. He’s being ungrateful and melodramatic. Things certainly could’ve turned out _worse_ for him, if Master Ikithon were less _gracious_. He could’ve turned up like Eodwulf, lost in the wilderness somewhere far, far away, probably racking up an impressive body count and mad with bloodthirst. He and Astrid… they made it work. He’ll make this work.

Bren _hates_ how his arms are trembling.

The orange light emanating from his lanterns suddenly flickers, and Bren looks up, startled, as they become a verdant green _… Odd_ , he thinks, forcing himself to remain calm, and he looks to the unlit candle on his desk. He snaps his fingers, and a rippling green flame materializes, cascading him in verdant light. He faintly recalls this colour… Jester’s little coat. “The Traveler,” Bren mutters, and the lights seem to glow even brighter. “Leave me at once.” His voice is firm, sure—if there’s a mild tremor behind his voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it. _Fuck_ , how many heretics has he condemned to prison? How many has he murdered as a Vollstrecker? Is he _really_ surprised one of these false gods finally decided to seek a little retribution? He’s just surprised it’s the god of the woman he’s in bed with.

The papers begin to swirl around Bren, and pick up speed. He gets up, annoyed and frightened, and they slap against his form, against his head, against his desk. He snarls a little, and picks up his spellbook, feeling arcane sparks rake along his skin and clothes as he prepares a fiery spell in the case that he sees any movement. “Do you have anything to _say_ , or are you just here to waste my _time_?” Bren tries to even out his voice, to sound unbothered and languid, but he flinches as a paper slams forcefully against his chest, pushing him back into his chair.

Bren scowls, and reaches for the paper. It’s Master Ikithon’s summons for him to go to Rexxentrum. He stares at it in disbelief. “You want me to leave soon,” he says, hesitantly.

The papers stop spinning around him and begin to float down to the floor. The green light flickers out, and Bren stares with a pale face and trembling hands clenched against his armrest at the candle, watching the red and orange and yellow overtake the green.

There’s movement, and Bren looks back, his eyes wild and his arms sparking with arcane energy. Circular runes materialize around him and the force of his magic causes his cape to ripple and his hair to be pushed back as he _glares_ at the intruders—his own frightened guards. He snarls in frustration and allows the spell to explode into the wall beside them.

They stare at Bren with wide eyes, and he straightens up, running his hand through his hair and giving them a languid smile. He feels tight, all worn and brittle inside, but he forces himself to compose the anger on his face and give them a stiff smile. “Your response time is _abysmal_.” His tone is cold. He feels a little like he’s drifting, like he’s a little lost, and he clenches his jaw slightly.

One of them winces. He’s young, with short black hair, and Bren looks at him evenly until he flushes with shame and steps forward. “We’re—things kept being thrown in our way. Cabinets, and furniture, and—”

Bren lets out a mocking laugh, sitting back down on his chair and leaning back. The guard who spoke grimaces, and bows deeply, and Bren stares at him with a cool gaze. “Do you have any idea who I am?” His voice is pleasant and soft. He’s reminded of Master Ikithon, and how the days when he was gentle were the days the most blood was shed. The comparison makes him sick to his stomach, almost as much as the smile curling on his face—and _oh_ , the creature under his skin squirms a little, and he thinks of Jester, and how _lovely_ she said she thought he was.

_I’m hideous to the bone._ Bren’s bright gaze, looking at Jester, and his soft, damnable voice, asking her desperately to have him, broken as he was. Ruined as he was. Pathetic as he was. Bren’s beginning to realize the extent of his selfishness.

“Hero of the revolution,” the guard says, looking nervously to the others, who in turn studiously avoid his gaze. Bren’s lips twist a little at _hero_ , and he tilts his head. The guard rubs at his purple and red armor, seeming absolutely miserable. He’s young, too young to know to shut up.

_Someone should teach him_. There’s that voice in head, that voice which is lilting and deep and persuasive, that sounds like Master Ikithon and sounds like Astrid and sounds like Wulf and sounds like _him_ , and Bren tilts his head to the guard, his eyes almost dancing. “Did _cabinets_ and _furniture_ stop me from lighting up monarchists like pretty candlesticks”—he _flinches_ at that, how interesting—“and incinerating them as we fought in the capital square?” His voice is the facsimile of curiosity.

The guard looks to the wall blackened and broken in by the force of Bren’s _Fireball_ , and he exhales nervously. His shoulders are trembling and Bren wants to snarl, _Fix your tell, boy_. “N-no, my lord.”

“Step back,” Bren whispers, and all the guards fall back. The guard who spoke also begins to, but Bren shakes his head, still smiling. The guard looks down, his face twisting with fear, and Bren lets arcane words rip out from his mouth, circular runes forming around him all the way down the arm to where he’s holding his spellbook, and then around the other, where he makes somatic gestures. Objects begin to move around him, and the guard readies his sword as Bren casts _Animate Objects_.

The objects _hurtle_ towards the man, and Bren wonders how beautiful Jester would consider him if she could see this. He wonders if her damned god is watching, and he feels sickened and pleased at the thought. _Fuck_ , the second they stop with this _ruse_ , the better it is for _him_. He’s already losing his mind for short bursts of time, he can’t… her smile is ruining him. Has ruined him.

The guard screams, and Bren smiles.

* * *

Jester’s client is an old woman, this pleasant noblewoman named Lady Lorraine. She wears a pale blue dress, long and rippling and beautiful, and Jester forces herself not to stare for too long or too jealously. “You work with children, right?” Lady Lorraine’s voice is elegant and has a slight Zemnian accent. Jester _doubts_ she’s native to Rexxentrum, and there’s something in her lilting voice that makes her think of Nicodranas, but she won’t pry. She _can’t_ pry, the last thing she needs is additional scrutiny on her own Nicodrani roots and her mother.

“Yeah.” Jester smiles. She sometimes volunteers at the orphanage in Blumenthal, and she loves bringing whatever spare paints and paper she can offer and watching the children’s creativity explode onto the page, their little hands stained with bright colours as they streak colours with her old brushes onto the white. When it all becomes a little too much to bear, she reminds herself of the little things—she’s able to help these kids because of what happened, and that isn’t nothing.

“I want a portrait of my two nieces.” Genuine fondness colours Lady Lorraine’s voice as she begins to speak of them, of Laila who plays in the dirt with her skipping rope, and Lily, who refuses to wear anything but purple. Jester giggles at her stories, and accepts her delicious cupcakes, and shakes her hand after their brief meeting. She wonders absentmindedly what it might’ve been like when _she_ was a child—if Mama ever shared stories of _her_. She shakes her head at her own naivety—Mama hid her until she _couldn’t._

“I’ll have everything ready for tomorrow,” Jester promises, wincing internally as she thinks of the long walk to the cheap tavern she found where she’s keeping her things locked in her rented room. It’s going to be hard, carrying all her shit up here and not being stopped by the local Crownguard, but she’s well-established enough here that she can just cast _Sending_ and get some very impressive people to validate her story.

Lady Lorraine walks her out, and Jester fiddles with her pendant as she gazes at the silken opulence around her. It’s kind of _worse_ here than it is in Bren’s manor—at least there, she knows that beautiful elegance doesn’t fit him as neatly as he pretends it does. She knows his leather gloves cover burns and calluses and imperfections, and she knows he’s as broken as she is. He can just afford the veneer that’s been ripped away from her and her mother.

Here, the elegance is… it’s _everywhere_ , and Jester looks down as she walks down the streets, staring down at the perfectly paved walkways and their contrast to her worn brown boots. She feels a little stupid, and she crosses her arms, her toned arms clenching slightly as she juts her jaw out. A part of her, the part that’s dumb and weak and insecure, wonders if Bren was playing with her when he suggested she wear these, and she shakes her head to herself, clenching her hands. _Fuck_ , she thinks, and her chest feels so heavy and tight and stuttering. _Oh gods, fuck._ She imagines Bren and Lady Lorraine at _rich people brunch_ , with the mantle Bren wears glinting from the sun bearing down on him. He would be perfect, as he tore into her, threw her under the bus. Fucking _perfect._

Jester stills, coming across an alleyway. She looks around, and doesn’t see anybody walking near. She bites the inside of her cheek nervously. The sun is starting to set, leaving everything in this gentle orange hue, and Jester… Jester starts to count to ten, filled with a trembling energy. She begins to walk down the alley, casting _Disguise Self_ to make herself look like a Crownsguard as she does. _Un, deux, trois_ … 

_Jester_ , the Traveler says, urgently. She can’t see him, but his voice is clear in her head, trying to work through her anger- and humiliation-fueled stubbornness. She might be blinking something away in her eyes, but no one is there to see except her god, and she’s run herself too ragged to hide this completely from him. _Not now, there will be a better time to_ —

“I’ll lose the nerve if I wait,” she snaps, and she widens her eyes at her own anger. This doesn’t stop her from reaching for her verdant paint and beginning to paint the symbol along the bricks.  _Six, sept, huit_ … She can feel herself becoming a little breathless with anticipation. “You said you’d _help_.” She realizes there’s proper tears now stinging her eyes, and she tries to blink them away. No more hiding. She _promised_ herself no more hiding, and she… and she…. _Fuck_ , maybe a part of her _likes_ being hidden, _likes_ being someone’s pathetic secret that they —

… _Dix_. “Hold on,” someone says behind her, and Jester feels herself stiffen, her eyes widening as she tries to cast _Invisibility_. She’s shoved roughly against the bricks, and there’s something being pressed against her wrists, and it stops her spell, sputtering out the divine symbols that were starting to form behind her.

“I’m not— _listen_ ,” she says, her voice desperate, hating how the bricks scrape against her face and dress, but as she tries to make more divine symbols with her hands tied back, she stills as she realizes both her _Disguise Self_ has worn off thirty minutes before it should’ve, and her connection to her god is _dead._ She can’t hear the Traveler, can’t feel his presence, for the first time in more than a decade, and she feels fear well up in her gut. She tries to push back, to use her strength to maybe compromise their hold on her, but there’s another pair of arms holding her down, and Jester realizes for the first time how _truly_ fucked she is.

Jester feels humiliating tears well up in her eyes as they pull her back and grab for the symbol out from her grip. Her arms are shaking, and she tries to tighten her hold on it. For a moment, the Crownsguard’s eyes widen from her unanticipated resistance, but then other arms pull her fist back, and they’re pushing her to her knees. Jester winces as her skin scrapes against the pavement. “That’s _mine_ ,” Jester says, furiously. She tries to ignore the shakiness of her breath.

The Crownguard smirks down at her. “You’ve chosen the worst city for heretical worship.” Their voice is cloying. “You’re going to _capital prison_ , little heretic.” They look to the other Crownsguard, and they share a knowing look. “You better hope you know some important people.” They sound so _smug_ as the two of them grab her up and force her into the cart behind led by two horses. Jester tests out her restraints, and they dig into her skin, making her wince.

“Give back my symbol,” she snaps back hotly, and they laugh. Jester looks down, and realizes they took her bag with all her money in it, and she quietly bursts into tears again, before wiping them briskly with her chained hands. “… Traveler?” she whispers, quietly, feeling humiliated and angry and pathetic.

There’s nothing, and Jester sits in frightening silence.

* * *

Bren hears about the little painter heretic who was imprisoned on charges of heresy and treason about five minutes after he casts _Teleport_ and makes his way into his humble property in the residential area of Rexxentrum. One of his attendants hurriedly gives him a letter, stuttering something about a Lady Lorraine being upset he somehow impugned her honour because she hired someone based on their work with him, and he sits in his office, trying to remember who the _fuck_ that old goat is, and why the _fuck_ she matters to him.

Bren’s shoulders relax a little, as he recalls. She’s married to the ambassador to Tal’dorei, and she doesn’t _truly_ matter to him beyond keeping good relations to ensure Master Ikithon’s little network of political operatives extends to every reach of the new government. He opens the letter, already preparing a simpering apology in his head, and his hands still against the paper as his eyes rake through the details.

“ _Scheisse_ ,” he _hisses_ , running a hand through his hair. He thinks of Jester sitting in a cell alone, and his stomach drops. No. _Nein._ He realizes the paper is crumpling under his tight grip, and he lets it go, letting it fall to his desk. Bren runs both of his hands over his face for a moment, and then lets out a shuddering sigh. It’s—it’s okay. He can pay the right people and drag her out of this mess. It’s _fine_ , she’s just a painter, it won’t—

_You’re being foolish, my boy_. He can practically _hear_ Master Ikithon’s dispassionate voice rip through his thoughts, and he stills, his jaw shifting. _She’s the daughter of the Ruby, you don’t need this attention on you. And it will bring attention to you._

Oh gods, Bren is going to be _sick_. He sits there, momentarily contemplating his options. He _knows_ what Master Ikithon would do, and he’s followed his teacher’s instincts so easily so many other times—it’s what has given him this power he holds now—but _Jester…_ the thought of her, _alone_ , makes his stomach drop. “Hans,” he snaps, getting up from his chair. He smoothes out the wrinkles in his coat, and glares at his attendant stumbling into the room.

“Ja, Herr Ermendrud?” He looks pale, barely managing to hide the most overt signs of his fright—Bren purposefully brought that guard who’d been beaten in by the fucking _furniture_ to remind all these people just who the fuck he is—and he looks to the crumbled letter on Bren’s desk. His jaw clenches slightly and he stiffens at the visible proof of Bren’s anger. His eyes dart back to Bren’s even, waiting gaze.

“I want an audience with Jester Lavorre.” Bren crosses his arms, watching the attendant wince. Bren smiles wide at them, fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk. “This is not a _request_. If you are unable to do this, find your subordinate, and give them your job.” Hans grimaces slightly at Bren’s cloying voice. His voice is soft, almost _gentle_. “We have that contact at the Rexxentrum Capital Prison. Make it work. She was arrested just a _day_ ago.”

Hans wrings his hands nervously, and Bren narrows his eyes. There’s something _off_ , something he doesn’t _know_ , and it’s… scaring him. Bren exhales through his teeth. He hasn’t felt this in a _while_ , not since Master Ikithon’s last summons, and he doesn’t _miss_ this feeling. “She’s assigned to the Committee for Religious Oversight,” he says, and he trembles just slightly when Bren _swears_ , running a hand through his hair. _Oh_ , he can just _picture_ Astrid in her robes, raising an eyebrow at Jester while a smile plays distractedly on her lips. “I can—I can get you that meeting, my lord, I just—”

“Do it,” Bren hisses, his nails digging into his hand from clenching his hands so hard. “You have a fucking hour.”

Hans nods, and Bren listens to his frantic footfalls, before collapsing onto his chair. He runs his hands over his face, and tries to even out his breath. This isn’t— _fuck_ , how could this become a nightmare so fucking _fast_?

He waits, watching the sky darken from his window. He waits, and he waits, and he _waits_.

* * *

Lord Sharpe smiles evenly at her, and Jester _stares_ , uncomprehending. “What goes around comes around, doesn’t it, girl?” His voice is almost conversational, and his smile widens as Jester shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Her arms are restrained behind her, and her feet are chained to the floor, and she’s wearing a blue prison uniform. None of this is as important as the fact that her magic is fucking _dead_ , and these _fucks_ have separated her from her best friend. Her heart is racing, and this is _too much_ without him, she _needs_ him, this is _too much_. Who the fuck else is going to help her? “You and your mother have certainly made a lot of enemies up in this city.” Sharpe’s lips curl in disgust as he looks at her. “I have _no_ idea why the _fuck_ you thought you were welcome here.”

“You had Crownsguard follow me around?” Jester shakes her head, cutting through his drivel and to the point of the matter. She stares at him furiously. “All because I… all because I pranked you all those years ago? Don’t you think my family has been punished _enough_?” Jester is truly at a fucking loss. She doesn’t understand how… how locking this man outside on her mother’s balcony and exposing his affair when she was so fucking _young_ could somehow make him hate her enough to condemn her to prison for life. Jester doesn’t understand how _she_ could be _reckless_. Tears threaten to well up in her eyes again, and she shakes her head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“You ruined my marriage, Lavorre,” Sharpe says, almost bored. “And I’m not _nearly_ powerful enough to pay off these Crownsguard and this prison and the Committee.” He leans back in his chair, and Jester sees him wearing a crest along his chest. A crest she is _intimately_ familiar with.

Jester _swears_ , and Lord Sharpe looks _delighted_ by her anger. “Are you _fucking_ serious?” She feels genuine fucking bloodthirst, and maybe Sharpe can tell, because his smarmy smile fades a little as she gazes at him with enraged, almost _mad_ , eyes. “My mother rejects an archmage, and De’leth takes everything. But he won’t even… he won’t even let me rise up?” She’s fucking _trembling_ with fury. “He won’t let me earn a _living_?”

“This is on _you_ ,” Sharpe practically hisses, and Jester wants to _lunge_ for him. Gods, she’s… she’s really going to lose everything over some fucking _graffiti._ Literally the only one who might even mildly be in her corner is Bren, and he… and he…. Jester’s face _twists_. He doesn’t care. Not enough. Not enough to change, not enough to improve, and… and not enough to sacrifice. And this _would_ require sacrifice.

Jester stares down, as Sharpe continues to orate at her. At some point he must’ve realized she’s become listless and stopped paying attention, because he’s _snapping_ at her. Jester continues to ignore him, and prays in her head to the Traveler. _I’m sorry_ , she thinks, miserably. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please take care of Mama… and Bren. And the children at the orphanage. And Lady Lorraine’s nieces. Please, please, please. I love you so much, Traveler._ There’s no response, and she wants to _cry_.

Eventually Sharpe leaves, and Jester sits in silence. The arcane lights flicker slightly, and Jester looks at them resentfully. “Capital prison,” she mumbles. “Can’t even afford proper fucking _lighting_.”

The door opens, and she _jumps_ slightly in her seat, startled. Jester narrows her eyes, ready to snap at the prison guard or whomever the fuck is here to tell her how she’s fucked up her entire life, and her eyes widen with surprise when Bren enters the room in simple, unassuming wear. She gets up and tries to reach for him, but binds stop her, and she has to wait for a torturous moment while he walks to her, and buries her into a deep embrace.

“Oh, Lavorre,” Bren breathes, and his voice is trembling slightly. His hair isn’t coiffed and perfect, and his skin looks pale, and he’s a little thin under his layers. It doesn’t make him any less wonderful, and Jester realizes she’s crying into his black shirt, and they’re sinking to the floor. He’s _firm_ , and _real_ , and _comforting_ , and Jester has underestimated how just a couple hours of humiliation have made her ready to have a breakdown at the slightest hint of gentleness.

“I’m going to die here,” Jester says, trying to laugh. It comes out rough, and choked, and a little pathetic. “And it’s my own damn fault, and I—I’m”—her voice breaks for a moment, and the stone walls feel too constricting, and he pulls her even closer to him—“take care of Mama, okay? She can’t be alone, she needs other people to—to, you know…” Her voice trails off as he runs his hands through her hair, straightening it out with his gloved fingers.

“I will,” Bren promises. Jester searches his face, looking for lies, but seems completely genuine for fucking once. “But I hope you know you’re getting out of here.” He stares at her with a steady gaze. “You’re not dying here, Jester.” She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment and cherishing the way he says her name.

“What are you gonna do against an _archmage_ , Bren?” She lets out a brittle laugh. Bren stills against her, and she sighs. “Thank you for… for coming. I thought maybe you wouldn’t, and I’m glad you did. But it’s… okay, you know? Just take care of Mama, and I’ll—”

“Lavorre,” Bren sighs. He sounds a little tortured. “Jester. I’m not… I’m _really_ trying. I’ll think of something to—something that will—”

“There’s nothing you’ll do,” Jester says, gently, interrupting his stumbling over his own words. It’s… endearing, but ultimately pointless. He doesn’t love her enough. He looks at her a little sadly, and she shrugs. “I’m the daughter of the Ruby. Everyone will… everyone will suspect if you do something for me.” Jester exhales through her teeth, and tries not to seem too bitter. Bren looks pretty in this light, he always seems to, and Jester thanks the Traveler she got even this much. She’s going to rot in here as his secret, and it’s… it’s fucking excruciating to think about, so she _doesn’t_. “There’s nothing you can do that won’t compromise _you_ , and it’s… I get it, Bren.”

“I don’t…” He looks fucking _miserable_.

“I’m not going to _change_ ,” Jester says, and he freezes. “I’m not going to _improve_.” She lets out this wet laugh. “At least you were _honest_ , you know?” She sniffs. “More honest than I was. You asked me to have you as a wretched man, and I… I can’t, Bren. I really tried.”

“I-I know you did,” he says, his face _twisting_ slightly. She puts a hand to his face, and he leans into her touch.

Jester looks at him meaningfully. “I’m selfish, I want you at your _best_.” Bren looks like her words are fucking tearing him apart, and she smiles weakly, her eyes tracing over his features. His hair is slightly longer now, and his eyes are darker in these shadows. He’s trembling slightly, like a cornered animal, and she kisses his soft lips, and after a moment, he kisses her back. She runs her hands through his hair, and he smiles sadly against her lips.

“Be selfish, Lavorre,” Bren says, pulling back. He brushes away her tears with his gloved thumbs, and though his touch is tender, the leather is too stiff against her skin.

Jester shakes her head. “I want your _real_ hands, Bren.” She huffs out this sheepish half-laugh, biting her lower lip. “Maybe if I demanded what I wanted from the _start_ , I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have resorted to such _stupid—_ ”

“Don’t call the woman I love stupid,” Bren whispers, and Jester stares at him with wide eyes. “Please, Lavorre, she’s very special, and I didn’t see how much I hurt her. Be gentle with her, okay? Until I get her out of this fucking cell.” His words become harder near the end, his enunciation of the words sharper and his eyes a little colder, and it’s… it’s a little hot. It’s a little impressive. Jester hasn’t allowed Rexxentrum to completely break her down as to not recognize that.

Jester, despite fucking _everything_ , can feel this trembling lightness in her chest. _He loves me, he loves me not. But he loves me_. “… Okay,” she mumbles, her cheeks and neck flushing, and he gives her a reassuring smile.

“I’m going to leave you now,” Bren says, his words halting like he can’t fucking stand the thought, and Jester holds him tighter for a moment before she forces her hands to let go. She bunches her hands in her uniform, and he hesitates for another moment, before pulling off his gloves and putting his warm hands on her face and kissing her once again. She sighs against him, and he smiles, pulling back. “The next time I see you, you’re going to be a free woman. Okay? I won’t leave you to rot here.”

Jester stares at him. He’s a fucking excellent liar, but despite herself… she can’t help but believe him. “Okay,” she says, her voice rough. His rough fingers brush away her tears, and he kisses her forehead. She closes his eyes as his lips press against her skin.

“Your god hasn’t left you,” Bren says, after a moment. He winces slightly, and exhales. “He… he gave me a message, telling me that you needed help.”

Jester fucking _squeals_. Oh, _gods_. The Traveler hasn’t left her over this fuck-up. They haven’t… they haven’t torn him from her, not yet. “Isn’t he the _coolest_?” She looks at Bren carefully, remembering his cold reaction when she first mentioned him.

Bren winces, like he’s remembering too. “… The coolest,” he says, and Jester fucking _beams_. Feeling him let go of her face and get up is physical agony, but Jester digs her fingers into her uniform, and gives him a watery smile as he walks to the exit. “Trust me,” he says, and there’s something a little desperate in his voice. “I know I haven’t… given you enough reason to, but—”

“Bren Aldric Ermendrud,” she says, making that name all her own in her lilting voice. She stares at him meaningfully. “I trust you.”

Bren gives her one final smile, helpless and divine, and then he leaves. Jester sits back in her chair. _Merci_ , she says to the Traveler, and feels her tears building up again, except this time she’s smiling. _Merci, merci, merci, merci_.

The Traveler doesn’t respond, and she can’t feel him near her, but she thinks he might also be smiling.

* * *

Master Ikithon stares at Bren with a charming smile, and Bren stares down at the smooth red carpet. He could still technically get out of this—he could listen to whatever Ikithon wants to do, and then find a way to worm out of it. He’s not his _student_ , after all—Master Ikithon can’t torture him into accepting the terms and conditions he offers, but… _Jester_.

Jester, sitting miserably in the cell. Jester, thinking Bren wouldn’t visit. Jester, _sure_ Bren would leave her to rot and throw her under the bridge because that’s what Bren has _always_ done with everyone he’s ever met. Jester, breaking down into tears at the _sight_ of him, begging him to protect her mother. His heart clenches, and he feels shame make the creature under his skin _writhe_. He’s… he’s fucking hideous to the bone, but he can’t leave her to die in there. She’s too _important_. And she _is_. Important. Important to _him_ , and important to the _world_ , and he’s hurt her too much to back away now. Bren exhales through his teeth, and sits up, returning Master Ikithon’s smile.

“… Jester Lavorre,” Master Ikithon says, his deep and assertive voice cloying over Jester’s name. He seems to make it his own in that second, and Bren resists the urge to wince in his chair. Ikithon looks down at the file on the desk in front of him and sighs, closing it. He leans forward, clasping his arms down in front of him. Bren stills at the sound, remembering the training drills that would only ever end at the sound of his clasped hands. Not at Bren’s blood pooling on the floor. Not with Astrid’s legs broken. Not with Wulf in a trembling rage, shivering and twitching and his arms drenched in red. With those hands. “You want me to call in with Astrid on the Committee to provide clemency for this _heretic_?” He says this slowly, like he’s waiting for Bren to realize how foolish this all sounds. Bren looks away, forcing his face to remain pleasant and impassive, and Ikithon sighs. “The Lavorre women are… beautiful, aren’t they?” Bren stiffens, and his gloved hands clench into fists on the arms of his chair involuntarily. Ikithon watches his hands curiously, a smile curling languidly over his lips. “They must be beautiful, even in poverty.”

“I’ve… only had the pleasure of meeting the one. She’s lovely.” Bren forces himself to keep his voice even, slightly disinterested. He gently unclenches his hands, and relaxes into his cushioned chair. _Keep it together_ , he thinks. _Just keep it together for her._

Master Ikithon stares at him for a moment. “Then again,” he says, his voice slightly lilting. He watches Bren’s face carefully, and Bren stares back at him pleasantly. “Maybe their destitution has humbled them. Humility certainly flatters a woman’s temperament.”

Bren flicks his eyes away for a moment, feeling just after he shifts his jaw slightly that the movement has betrayed him. Master Ikithon is playing with him, and he _knows_ what Bren wants so desperately that he’s crawling to the most senior official in the government he knows. Bren has _no_ idea what Master Ikithon fucking wants, and he’s terrified that it’s _him_. Bren. His little Vollstrecker That somehow, Master Ikithon has decided he’s unworthy of the power he gave Bren all that time ago, and Bren’s going to become just another tool of his in Rexxentrum. “I wouldn’t know,” Bren says, stiffly. “I only commissioned Lavorre after they lost everything.”

Ikithon tilted his head as Bren spoke, watching the movement of his jaw. “Is she anything like her mother?” he asks, after a moment. Master Ikithon raises an eyebrow, his gaze momentarily distant like he’s remembering something particularly amusing. Bren wonders what Master Ikithon must make of De’leth’s humiliating proposal to the Ruby. “Demure, intelligent, insightful, a certain problem of a woman?”

“Talented,” Bren murmurs, after a moment. He tilts his head up to Master Ikithon, and gives him an almost wicked smile. He feels _sick_ , playing at this like this some fucking game, but he can’t let Master Ikithon realize how serious this really is to him. If he does, his teacher will fucking _eat him alive._ “Full of dreams. You must be able to appreciate a rat from the gutter trying to crawl their way up, Master Ikithon. You have before.” He keeps his face even as he says _rats_ —remembering the backwater where he grew up is a constant source of humiliation.

Master Ikithon smiles indulgently at him, and Bren resists the urge to look away at that. “You, my boy”—and _oh_ , that brings back _memories_ —“had humble beginnings. Your loyalty to your country brought you where you are. But treason? Heresy?” He shakes his head, his smile turning cruel in that way it tends to. “That’s a rat that hates where it landed. Your… interest of her case is admirable, but ultimately pointless.” There’s this hint of satisfaction as he speaks, like he’s glad this conversation has been _resolved._ He looks back down to the report, and Bren clears his throat, resisting the urge to wince as Master Ikithon’s gaze _snaps_ to him.

Bren leans back in his chair, clasping his hands on the knee crossed over the other. “Of course she must be punished,” he agrees, making his voice open and convincing like he actually believes what he’s saying. “But capital prison? It’s a _waste_. She could even be used for the state—you must be able to appreciate the quality of her work.” He internally grimaces at that—Jester would _hate_ this argument, would _hate_ him saying this, but he’s grasping at straws for her, and he _can’t let her down_. He’s quietly realizing he can’t fucking let her down.

Master Ikithon watches him with an even face. His gaze drags over Bren’s face, and Bren forces himself to remain still. “You have _no idea_ how transparent you sound, my boy.”

Bren clenches his jaw, and feels the animal in him, that creature wearing his face, flinch at Master Ikithon’s tone. Oh _gods_ , this tone used to be accompanied by the stinging pain of necrotic energy. _Scheisse_ , he thinks, a little desperately. “I don’t—”

“This is the first time you’ve talked back to me since you were seventeen.” Ikithon’s voice is pleasant, almost conversational, and Bren wants to _sink_ into his seat. “If you were still under my tutelage, that was a week in solitary confinement.” Bren stiffens, and Ikithon’s smile widens. “You must know how these things work. You want your _rat_ , you’re going to need to do some things for me.”

“… Of course, I’m very interested in helping in any way I can.” Bren forces a smile. This is going as well as he thought it might, and he feels a little raw, and he feels a little numb. “I’m just… hoping you’ll see she doesn’t deserve a cell.” _Please, be merciful for once in your life. Please._

Master Ikithon looks at him like he’s _disappointed_ , and Bren’s weak hopes plummet. “People land where they land.” His voice is dispassionate, and his cold eyes search Bren’s face. “Don’t fill the streets with drivel about _deserve_ , my boy. Your parents are dead for an equivalent charge.” Bren’s eyes flick away at _parents_ , and his next breath is fucking _painful_ —he hasn’t allowed himself to even _think_ about that, and if he does for too long it might—it might fucking make him _sick_. Ikithon tilts his head, considering Bren. “… You’re of marriageable age.” 

Bren sits in silence for a moment, his gaze _snapping_ back to Master Ikithon, and looks at him with shock. “ _What_?” He tries to hide his growing horror with a veneer of disinterested calm. His mind is… his mind is fucking spinning. This can’t—he _can’t_ —

Astrid in his head, in his bed, smiling as she cleans his wound. _Don’t you know, Bren, that he can do anything?_

“You are of marriageable age,” Master Ikithon repeats, giving him a hard look. “I would utilize that to strengthen bonds between some of our more… superficial relationships with neighbouring powers.”

“I don’t—but I’m—” He cuts himself off, seeing Master Ikithon _glare_ over his stumbling words. “How would this _work_?” He tries to make his voice even, tries to make it so his fingers aren’t clenching into the leather of his chair’s armrests, but he’s failing, failing, _failing_ —

“The Kryn Dynasty,” Master Ikithon sighs. “I mostly handle domestic affairs, as you know, but I’ve been asked to facilitate an act of goodwill.” He tilts his head to Bren. “You’ve met the ambassador as I’ve requested, right?”

Bren is wondering if he’s ever really fucking _left_ Master Ikithon’s orbit. “You wish for me to wed into Den Theylas,” he says, slowly. He thinks of the adoration in Dinin Theylas’s eyes, looking at his wife, and that beautiful baby, who cooed and giggled and… Bren’s trembling slightly. He’s never been one to settle, and this is no… no different than any other sacrifice he’s made. It would just be a political marriage, but…. His heart clenches. _Jester_. Oh gods, _Jester._

Jester, in her wedding dress, walking down the aisle with her mother. She would wink at him as she comes up the platform, and _shake_ with excitement until the priest— _a traitor, heretic priest_ , he tries to remind himself, but it doesn’t detract from the romance of his thoughts—says she can kiss him. She’d kiss him passionately, claimingly, and wrap her arm in his, seeking out his warmth. She always seeks out his warmth, when they’re laying in bed and her feet are pressed against his legs. Her dress would be white, that’s the Nicodrani colour for brides, and lacy, and hug her curves, and she’d be—it would be _perfect_. The day would be _perfect._

Gods, maybe they could’ve had a child. A child with her freckles and his eyes. A child with a strange accent, kind of Zemnian and kind of Nicodrani. A child who would’ve painted beside their mother, maybe learned a trick or two from their father. He imagines teaching this child _Dancing Lights_. Bren taught it to himself, alone in his family’s shed while his parents toiled, but this… this child would have their father teach it to them.

He imagines a lifetime together, a lifetime where he didn’t keep Jester secret, where he appreciated her when he could, where they danced and they dined and they held hands, and it kind of breaks his heart. Gods, he’s never even really _considered_ this before, but now that it’s on the verge of no longer being possible… 

“How important is this rat to you?” Master Ikithon’s voice is impatient and cloying. His pale eyes watch Bren’s clenched hands.

Bren looks at him evenly. “When is this wedding to occur?” He tries not to wince at the smile that spreads over Master Ikithon’s face.

He _tries,_ and he fails.

* * *

Jester looks at the red dress she’s wearing in the mirror one last time. It’s beautiful. She no longer obsesses over the little imperfections, over the fixed tears and faded colour—she’s beautiful. Bren thinks she’s beautiful, and her mother thinks she’s beautiful, and the _Traveler_ thinks she’s beautiful… 

She’s a little angry with him. It isn’t _fair_ , and he tried to _stop her_ , and then he did his best to help her deal with the fallout, but it’s… she’s so fucking _angry_. She was numb for weeks after Bren told her the news, after she was finished crying with joy into his shoulder. They were sitting in his manor, her still gripping him tight from when he cast _Teleport_ and brought them _home_ , to Blumenthal, when he confessed that he signed his life and his hand away, to some other man in some other land.

“I don’t—but you—” She cut herself off, hating how she stuttered, and he looked fucking _heartbroken_. “You’re marrying _him_? Essik Theylas?” She fucking hated that name the second she heard it. She could just _imagine_ hearing _Lord_ Theylas being called about, and the thought made her sick. “Your teacher can’t _do_ this to you, it isn’t _fair_.” She felt so _stupid_ and so _childish_ , and he took her hands in his own when she began running them through her hair anxiously, her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m so _sorry_ , Schatz,” he whispered, and Jester hated him a little for how fucking _annihilated_ she felt by that tender word. “I’m sorry I wasn’t… I’m sorry I wasn’t smarter. I’m sorry I wasn’t better for you, and I’m so sorry this future you were seeing with us… I’m sorry I didn’t see until _seconds_ too late.” He sounded like he hated himself too.

“We could—but we could _run away_ ,” Jester said, and she curled her lip at how he looked at her sadly. “We _could_ , unless you care more about your _money_ than you do about—”

“Unfair,” Bren interrupted. “That’s _unfair_.” Jester stared at him, and he sighed. “Oh, darling. Oh, Lavorre, I’m… maybe you’re right, and I’m too selfish and vain to run and be a penniless grifter, going from town to town.” He shrugged a little helplessly, and his eyes looked a little glassier than she was used to them. Jester realized then Bren was also fucking barely holding himself together. “But your _mother_ , who will be with _her_?” Jester stilled, and Bren kissed her forehead.

“How long until the wedding?” she murmured.

“A month.” His eyes were searching, gazing at her face.

“You’re _mine_ for this month,” Jester practically _hissed_ , and Bren nodded almost immediately. He was way too _fucking_ far away from her, despite being right beside Jester on this couch, and she grabbed him by his mantle, sitting herself down on his lap. One hand ran through his perfect hair, dishevelling it with her fingers, and Bren looked at her with considering eyes, a tilted gaze. _Thinking_ , she thought, reaching out and pulling him into a heated, open-mouthed kiss. _You’re always thinking._ At their lips’ touch, he groaned and pressed his gloved fingers into her dress, and Jester pressed even closer to him, her dress bunching up as their kiss became desperate—it was teeth clacking against each other, and it was his heated tongue pressing against her own, and it was those _sounds_ coming out from deep in her throat, her cheeks not dry from when she was crying. _All this thinking, and where has it gotten you?_

His gloved hand ran down along her skin to her freckled thigh, resting against it as he began to mouth at her jawline. She closed her eyes, her hands digging into his side as she felt his lips trail kisses, and sighed at the slightest hint of teeth scraping against her freckled brown skin—and it felt _wrong_. She was… she was _pleased_ a dam was finally broken and he was desperate enough to fuck in this dressing room in the manor, but she wanted his _room_. She wanted to desecrate his fucking _room_. His touch was too cold, too covered, and so was the rest of his body—she could feel layers of clothing from where her hands were resting, and he was so tightly _coiled_ , so tightly _restrained_. Jester wondered if maybe he was… maybe all this opulence around them was just another excuse. Just him trying to smother himself. “Bren,” she whispered.

Bren looked to her, pulling back from where he was leaving marks against her jaw to raise an eyebrow. His face was unexpectedly soft, and Jester smiled, raising her hand to smooth out his expression with her fingers. Bren looked… Bren looked _younger_ in this light, lit by the orange hue of the arcane lanterns. His red hair looked like it was made of fucking _fire_ , and his pale eyes reflected the emanating warmth, making him look bright and soft and… and… “Ja, Lavorre?” His voice was rough.

Jester smiled down at him, forcing herself get off his lap. She grabbed the gloved hand on her thigh as she did, pulling him up with her and dragging him out through the room. “I want to fuck you in _your_ room.” Bren stilled for just a moment, staring at her, and she sighed, too tired to continue quirking up her lips. “It’s only fair, ja?” Her voice was slightly bitter.

He exhaled, raising their intertwined hands to kiss hers, eyes on her rumpled dress and messy hair and dark eyes. “Ja,” he confirmed, and the corner of his lips twisted up, seeming mildly amused by her use of Zemnian. “If you’re interested in Zemnian, I can teach you.”

Jester gave him a sidelong look, this considering smirk, as they walked through the rooms. It took longer than it should have to make it to the staircase, and it took longer still to walk up those steps, their footfalls uneven and halting. Bren kept pressing her close all the while, and Jester indulged him, allowing half-moments where she felt his tongue and lips against the nape of her neck, her hand bracing on the opulent staircase railing as she leaned back and pulled Bren close, their breathing shaky as their lips danced around each other. Jester lost herself somewhere on that staircase, one hand on his mantle and another in his hair, but Bren was focused—always _thinking_ —and he directed them, stumbled them towards his room. He managed to unlock his door even as Jester bit into his neck, groaning and pushing forward, pushing against her, _until—_

Jester felt soft sheets and a comforting duvet and gentle pillows. She leaned up against the headboard, watching Bren close the door and then cast something. Some kind of abjuration magic, but she was too restless to try to figure out what spell his fingers were carving into the air, what those runes materializing around him _meant_. Jester sighed, watching her clever wizard, and she said, “I have you, Bren.” He looked up to her, startled, and she gave him a weak smile, trying not to seem to lonely on this bed. This room was lit by the moonlight streaming through the curtained windows, and Bren’s face from the darkness looked sad. Looked vulnerable. She tilted her face to him, and patted the space in front of her with her hand, raising her eyebrows expectantly. If she weren’t so exhausted, she would’ve been more playful. “Trust me.” Her voice was soft.

Bren watched her for a moment, and then sighed, walking to her. He pulled off his mantle as he did, taking off his cloak and his dark coat, kicked off his boots. Jester watched him finally reveal himself in all his imperfect glory—his hands as he took off his gloves were rough, blackened, calloused, unlike the lords Jester was used to, the lords her mother used to entertain. She could see slight hints of the scars on his arms from where the cloth on his sleeves bunched up. Bren seemed slightly unsure in his own room, in his own richness, and Jester wondered if it was strange to have _her_ , who she was now _certain_ was real and good to him, amongst all this bullshit _._ He crawled up to where she was sitting in a simple shirt and black trousers, and Jester pulled him close. Bren’s body pressed close beside her as they kissed, her braced between him and the pillows.

Jester sighed impatiently, grabbing his shirt and peeling it off of him. Even those seconds where she couldn’t see his face seemed like too much, and she captured his lips in another desperate kiss as soon as she was able. Her eyes raked over his exposed skin, which was both scarred and burned, and also… also delicate. This wasn’t the first time she’s seen him, seen his chest, but she always took a moment—this was history, these were _stories_. The Traveler _loved_ stories, and Bren Aldric Ermendrud was _full_ of them. Jester thought maybe it was one of the reasons she was so fond of him—he was full of history, just like her. “How’d you get this one?” Her voice is gentle, her hand on his shoulder, and his eyes snapped to her face. Jester thought for a disappointing minute that he would deflect, but he sighed, leaning down to press a kiss against her neck.

“Training,” he murmured. There was another kiss, and Jester leaned to his touch. “I was too slow. Hounds.” He sounded mildly mortified. Jester waited for him to elaborate, but he continues to mouth at her neck, occasionally leaving kisses rough enough to leave light marks. She curled a hand behind the nape of his neck, and he made a low sound, this little groan, and she bite the inside of her cheek, smiling sadly.

“You didn’t heal it.” Jester’s voice was carefully neutral, and she felt him stiffen for a moment, before his careful fingers began to unbutton the front of her dress and his tongue ran against her skin. He left kisses along her exposed sternum, and she sighed, throwing her head back.

“Nein,” he muttered, the word whispered against his skin. “Didn’t… didn’t deserve it.” Jester tilted her head back, and he winced, looking up and meeting her gaze. “Please, Jester.” His voice was practically pleading, though his face was even, and Jester stilled for a minute, watching his hand travel downwards, underneath her bunched up yellow dress. Warm, rough fingers pulled back her undergarment, and expertly ran through her folds. She let out a soft moan, her fingers digging into his sides, and Bren gave her a gentle smile. “Don’t… don’t make me think about…”

_Don’t make me think about him_. It _had_ to be _him_ —that teacher that scared him, the teacher he hardly talked about. Jester exhaled, sighing and arching her back slightly against him as a finger stroked her clit, and trailed her hand down to his midchest, where she could see another jagged scar. It looked like it maybe came from a blade wound, and she asked, her voice uneven, “How about this?”

Bren twisted his fingers slightly, and Jester moaned, biting her bottom lip and grasping for the silk sheets, bunching them in her hands to try to ground herself. Bren’s eyes became a little dark as he watched her—and _merde_ , the shadows complimented his face so _beautifully_ , it really wasn’t _fair_ —and he continued to leave kisses against her collarbone. Jester was about to retort that the way he was lightly scraping his teeth against her soft brown skin wasn’t _distracting her from the question, Bren_ , when his other hand reached for her arm, and traced a light scar there. “Tell me how you got this one.” His touch is kind of soft, kind of delicate, just a little reverent.

“Fell down the stairs,” she managed, using her hold on his waist to keep him pressed close, and thrusting to his touch. _Fuck the Traveler_ , he wasn’t _nearly_ deep enough. He smiled as he saw what she was doing, and Jester wanted to roll her eyes. _You aren’t slick, motherfucker_ , she thought. _Trying to wring back control_ — _that isn’t what you want, though, is it?_ Jester pulled him close, and began to mouth at his neck, _biting_ and leaving marks. Her fingers were imprinting on his pale skin, and Jester smiled bitterly at that—getting herself on him. She was getting herself _on him,_ making him all bruised and pretty, making her presence on him undeniable.

He paused for a moment, exhaling through his teeth and stilling his fingers for a moment before he continued to thrust in, and he said, gaze averted and the side of his head against hers, “My friend Eodwulf did that.”

“Your friend,” she said, her voice shaking as Bren crooked his fingers in that way he knew she liked, making her body writhe against his. She sighed, inhaling and taking in his smell—ink and incense. Truly a… truly a wizard, to the very fucking end. She tried not to think about what kind of _friend_ would cut him up like that. “Did he—is he—how is he?”

“Gone,” Bren said, after a moment. His voice became soft, almost trembling, and Jester could _hear_ the strain in it, _feel_ how much he needed to let go, how much he needed all this _bullshit_ stripped away from him. His hands were too steady, the way he was working his fingers too confident— _no one_ was that steady, _no one_ was that confident. He was too perfect when he was trying to hide himself, and that was his only tell.

Jester _flipped_ them, the movement smooth and almost instantaneous. Bren widened his eyes as he fell onto the pillows, and Jester put a hand on his chest, giving him a firm look. “Bren,” she whispered, and he stared at her with careful eyes. Bren’s hand shifted out from her cunt from the movement, and as much as Jester _wanted_ him there, she grabbed both his hands, and put them against his own sheets, her hands on his until he clenched his hands against the cloth. “Good,” she said, and watched his face flush slightly at the praise. She wondered if he realized how much, despite all his _fucking_ bravado, he needed her to tell him he was good. “Keep your hands there, okay?” Her voice was soft. “Until I say you can touch me.” He stared at her, and she gave him an encouraging smile. “I’ll take care of you.” She looked at him with her intent gaze.

Bren stared up at her, and then exhaled. “Alright,” he murmured. His voice was hesitant, but his want was _clear_. There was—there was _trust_ in those eyes, trust that she finally believed in after everything that’s happened, and she… she didn’t take it lightly. His neck was flushing pink, and it was spreading down to his sternum, and Jester wondered how many people were able to see this. Certainly not the fuck he was marrying—Bren couldn’t love that man if his thoughts were on her fingers imprinting against his pale skin. Jester thought the momentary sneer on her face wasn’t very flattering, but it was an ugly day.

Jester smiled at him, trying not to… trying not to let the outside world into his chambers. “Good.” He shivers slightly at that, showing more… vulnerability than he did before, and Jester leaned up to kiss him. His eyes were slightly hazy as she pulled away, and their foreheads pressed against each other before she began to trail kisses down his chest. She left searing kisses and the occasional light bruising marks where she knew he liked them, where it made him _moan_ , and _merde_ , it was like watching a flower blossom in the spring. It was like he came alive under her careful touch. She watched him moan as she as she ran her fingers over his nipples, and down his sides, pressing down and leaving light bruises along his pale skin.

Jester paused above the waistband of his trousers, and pressed her lips against his heated skin, leaving these lilting chaste little kisses until he was shifting slightly under her. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, and Bren’s gaze was _dark_. He immediately stopped his movement at her considering gaze, and Jester’s light smile widened. She reached out, putting her hand over one of his own as she dragged down his waistband with her teeth, and he _sighed_. Jester watched him close his eyes as she left kisses along his waist, along his thighs, and her thumb ran comforting circles along his hand clenched against the soft bedsheet. He was _trembling_ under her, and Jester tightened her grip on his hand, biting against his thigh close to his cock. He moaned, and Jester giggled. Bren blinked down at her, and then his lips pulled into a weak smile too, and they _saw_ each other. _Merde_ , this day _sucked_ , but they finally _saw_ each other. It made Jester a little teary, and she didn’t try to hide it—she simply left a soft kiss against the base of his cock when he gave her a concerned look, and he looked at her tenderly.

They traded tales, Bren breathing out stories between moans about his burns, about his scars along his arms and chest, her whispering between kisses along his flushed skin about the marks and scars playing recklessly in the Chateau with the Traveler left her in. She tried to tell him that it’s strange, that it’s fucked up, what happened to his body— _what that man did to your body_ —and he sighed, throwing his head back as she lightly stroked his cock. Her nails dragged just slightly, and he responded that all her stories from her childhood came from one place. Jester dragged her tongue up his cock to break that smug smile at her momentary silence, and his moan made her smile.

Jester’s strokes became more confident, and Bren’s breathing slightly more erratic, as she ran her tongue over the head of his dick. He moaned she took him in her mouth, and she would’ve smiled if her mouth weren’t busy at how _tightly_ he was holding onto the sheets—but he was _holding onto the sheets_. Jester was _right_ , he needed someone else’s steady hands, someone else’s soothing grip. He needed it as much as Jester needed _control_ —control over her money which the Crownsguard assholes _stole_ when they took her purse, control over her family who all these _fucks_ were threatening, control over herself, control over her… over her fate. Control over who she got to marry. It made her heart clench a little, knowing how _easily_ they _stole_ all of this from her, but Bren—he gave her some control back. He gave her some back when they released her from her chains and from that cell, and he gave her some back _here_ , sighing her name as she sucked his cock.

Jester pulled back as his moans became louder, his breathing more uneven. Bren watched her, and Jester smiled fondly at him, reaching out under her rumpled dress and sinking down on her own fingers, finishing what she didn’t _allow_ him to finish. She clenched against herself and sighd, closing her eyes momentarily. Her movements were slow, and she rode her fingers, at first two before she added another. Jester opened one eye before the other, tilting her head and grinning at Bren’s dark gaze, at the flush to his neck. “Don’t _worry_ ,” she said, smirking as she crawled up, hands bracing on his chest as she prepared herself. He exhaled as she grabbed his cock, eager and leaking in her hand, and adjusted herself on top of him. “You can touch me _soon_.” Jester slowly began to sink down, her thighs shaking and her hand reaching for Bren’s shoulder as she felt him filling her. She leaned her head forward, breathing deeply—the first time, it didn’t feel holy—god, having him in her _then_ felt like a fucking _sin_ —but now… 

Jester rolled her hips slightly, and sighed. She smiled weakly at Bren, gesturing for him to come up to her, and he _did_ , reaching out gently to pull her into a heated, bruising kiss. He looked so disheveled and wrecked already—it was kind of heavenly, watching him get undone on this bed he worked his way up to through blood and gore and torture and murder. Jester didn’t know a _lot_ about him, and she planned on changing that, but she knew… she knew a wayward soul when she saw one. There were clues all over his body, all over his eyes.

Jester exhaled slightly at the change in position, but then rolled her hips again, thrusting into him, and captured his groan in her lips. She pulled back, and grinned at him, reaching out with one hand to tilt up his face so she can more easily mark his jawline. “You can—touch me—now,” she said, between kisses, and then she felt his rough hands on her waist, along her hips. They dug in, and Jester arched to their touch, arched into _him_. He began to thrust into her in earnest too, and it was—he was—

Jester always found worship to be something intimate. Something she did in the quiet of her own room. Her kind of worship was sacrilege, one that would get her thrown in the shtihouse if Bren were less fond of her, and Jester thought it was kind of funny how in all the ways she and Bren were _different_ , their worship wasn’t… wasn’t so contrasting. His was also sacrilege, stumbling through _please_ and _bitte_ —Jester wondered if _this_ is what he meant when he offered to teach her _Zemnian_ —and he whispered _Jester_ too, his hands trembling and his eyes blown. Jester didn’t notice when he reached down and began thumbing at her clit, but he then _did_ , and her movement stuttered as she moaned, a tremor in her shaking voice. Then he was _kissing_ her again, rough with teeth and tongue and his heat in her mouth, and he—then he—

Jester came, her back arching and her hand tight on his shoulder and his hair, and he captured her moan in his mouth. Her thighs _trembled_ with the pleasure rolling over her in waves, and the clever bastard smiled against her lips as he felt it. His eyes were almost _shining_ , and Jester thought he was maybe blinking back _something_ too. She pulled back, feeling sharp and strange and still craving that _control_ , and said, “I want _you_ to come.” Her voice broke the silence previously only interrupted by moans and their bodies flush against each other, and Bren smiled helplessly as she clenched around him, trying to starve off the feeling of overstimulation that she could _feel_ was slowly working her over.

“As if I can deny you,” Bren said, his voice rough and adoring and _wanting_ , and then Jester _felt_ him coming, _felt_ him inside her. She kissed him through it, capturing his words in Common and Zemnian in her mouth. _They’re only for me, anyway_ , she thought, running a hand through his hair and pulling slightly. His eyes were dark and glittering and right now, they were _hers_ —they were _all_ hers, and this bed was, too. _Gods_ , it was almost kind of _funny_ —Jester and Bren never fucked in _his_ room before. They never came in _his_ bed, in all its softness and grandness and opulence. It was always _her_ room, always _her_ rattling walls, and he always crawled in and out, her being his dirty little secret. Hiding all the things she did to him behind all his fucking layers, all his fucking smiles, all his fucking bullshit—but it wasn’t as if Jester wasn’t also a liar, agreeing to have him as a wretched man. She resolved, crawling off him and collapsing beside him on the bed, that she was going to stop lying to herself.

“Welcome to the next _month_ of your life,” Jester whispered, curling around him with her arms and a leg tossed over his, craving his warmth, and Bren wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. She stared at all the marks she left on his jawline, on his neck, on his chest—she never dared leave so _many_ before, but for this one month, this was hers. _He_ was hers.

“I look forward to it,” Bren said, and he pulled her closer still, kissing her forehead. Jester stared at his face lit in the moonlight, and reached out with her hand, stroking his cheek tenderly. He leaned into her touch as she watched him, and her lips pulled into a sad smile. 

The bed was soft, but it was only because of Bren’s arms that Jester fell asleep that night. Her last thought as she drifted to unconsiousness was that she wanted to desecrate his bed as much as she was fucking able, until it belonged to another man. Until _Bren_ belonged to another man.

Gods, the thought made her _sick_.

* * *

It still fucking makes her sick, but she smiles at her reflection all the same, trying to be forgiving. Bren asked her to be gentle with herself, and she’s _really_ trying. It’s just hard when the world isn’t being very gentle to _her._

Marion smiles, hand reaching out to arrange the pendant nicely along her neck. “You look _lovely_ , Jester.” She looks to her worriedly. She’s been worried ever since Jester returned home that morning, tears in her eyes. Marion hesitated for only a moment before she left the doorway and, with her entire body trembling, reached for Jester, and pulled her in. Jester curled into her mother’s arms, and sobs wracked through her chest. “My problems,” Marion said, when she realized what had happened. She looked so horrified and _angry_ and helpless. “Jester, I’m so _sorry_.”

“Mama,” Jester mumbled. “He loves me. In the end, he… he loved me enough, you know? He finally loved me enough, but it’s only for one month.” She cried and cried that day, and has felt like she’s _made_ of water ever since. Everything feels a little brittle, and everything feels a little raw. She’s visited Bren every single day, and it’s never enough. His lips on her are never enough. His warmth is never enough. She needs more, more, _more_ , now that he’s finally ready to be his best, and she can’t have him after today. After this wedding. After Essik Theylas.

Jester scowls. _After Trent Ikithon._ Her mother adjusts the frills in her dress, and Jester stands proud, giving her mother a kiss on the cheek when she finally looks back up at her. “Don’t blame yourself, Mama.” She tries to give her mother an encouraging smile, reaching out to run her hand through Marion’s hair and straighten it out slightly.

Marion sighs, and leans close, pressing her forehead against Jester’s for a moment. “Then don’t blame yourself,” she says, gently.

Jester takes a ragged breath, and wraps her arms around Mama’s waist. “I… I _don’t_. I’m trying not to at least, you know?” She gives her a delicate smile. “I’m _really_ trying, Mama.”

Marion looks at her with a kind smile. “I _know_ , my little sapphire.” Jester closes her eyes momentarily at the nickname, remembering a childhood inside a secret room, playing pretend with the Traveler, running around on a carpeted floor and using expensive cloth from the curtains as a make-belief dress. “But why are you _going_ to this wedding, if not to _punish_ yourself?” She runs a hand through Jester’s bun, fixing it up as she goes.

Jester gives her mother a sad smile. She remembers Bren’s _face_ when she asked for an invitation. Him hesitantly saying, “It will become a spectacle,” and Jester saying, evenly, “It already is.” He agreed, of course—in this month where he’s decided to _try,_ he hasn’t been able to deny her much. Jester tilts her head at her mother, and gives her an encouraging smile. “He’s _mine_. He’s _mine_ until he’s married.”

Marion sighs. “I… I hope you get what you’re searching for.” She looks down at the bag Jester’s holding in her hands, and wrinkles her nose slightly, crossing her arms. “Are you _sure_ this is what you want to leave him with? It isn’t…”

“He’ll know what it means,” Jester says, firmly. She meets Marion’s gaze. “Trust me, Mama, he has a lot of jewels and glittering things. But he’s just discovered that’s not what he really wants at all. Not the most.”

Marion gives her a _look_ , and Jester gives her a winning smile, and she sighs again, deeper. “… If you insist, darling.” She gives Jester a kiss on the forehead. “Come home at a reasonable hour.”

“Okay,” Jester chirps, skipping out the door and down the dirt road. She tries to be careful not to scuff her shoes too much, but it hardly makes a difference how dirty her shoes are. The only person whose opinion matters in that manor won’t judge her, just like she doesn’t judge his burned and calloused fingers.

Jester continues to skip, skipping up the manor gate as the dirt road makes for smooth pavement, and then she’s suddenly _aware_ of how out-of-place she is amongst the fancy carriages. She’s _aware_ , but she doesn’t _care_ —if Essik Theylas is going to ruin her fairytale, she at the _very_ fucking least will ruin his wedding. She skips to the man checking the invites, and gives him a bright smile as he looks over her relatively simple dress and lack of accompaniment, but he can’t argue with the invite, signed with Bren’s nice handwriting as she sat on his lap and left marks along his neck. She smiles at the memory. It was a good day.

Jester smirks at the _looks_ she’s getting from all the elegantly dressed guests, and walks _away_ from the throne room everyone is being directed into, continuing down the hall and casting _Invisibility_ as she does. She can hear the Traveler in her head, humming softly. _Going to make a nuisance of yourself?_

_Yep_ , she thinks, walking down another hall into the room where she knows Bren is getting ready.

_Good_. He sounds genuine and proud and approving, and Jester pauses for a moment. _Are you still mad at me?_ His voice is still conversational, casual, but she can hear sadness, maybe even a little bitterness in it.

Jester sighs. _In general? Ja._ It feels good to finally start admitting it to herself and others. _But not at you._

_No more hiding_ , he says, after a moment, and Jester feels a helpless, bitter smile break onto her lips.

_No more hiding_ , she agrees. She continues to skip down the hall. _At least not from the people that matter._

* * *

Hans glares down at Jester when he sees her, crossing his arms. “You can’t—”

“Is that _Jester_?” they both hear Bren call from inside the room. Hans winces, and Jester smirks up at him, pushing past Bren’s attendant and sauntering into his room. He turns to look at her, and _oh_ —

She notices his deep red cape first, and then the golden mantle, and how they both frame the dark purples and blues of his coat. It reminds her a little of bruises against her skin when she slipped down the stairs of the Lavish Chateau that one time, and the association makes her smile. She leans close, giving him a searing kiss that leaves him a little wide-eyed, and she smirks at his expression. She’s careful not to run her fingers through his hair—it isn’t _Bren_ she wants to humiliate.

He looks down at her dress, and after a moment, his lips curl into a smile. “You’re… _really_ something, Lavorre.”

Jester smiles nervously. “It isn’t gonna annoy _you_ though, right?”

Bren scoffs a little, grabbing her hand and leading her to the couch. They’re alone, and the streaming brightness from the arcane lights makes his hair glow so _nicely_. “Essik Theylas can take whatever hits you throw his way.” Jester _hates_ the way Bren says his name—it’s making it real, and the thought makes her breathless. “Just know that he punches back.”

Jester smiles, and her face is a little brittle. She pulls a loose strand of hair behind her ears, and passes him the bag. “I got you a gift.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bren murmurs, but his pale blue eyes look to it curiously. “May I… may I open it?”

Jester beams, shaking her head. “I want you to be _thinking_ about it when your husband kisses you at the altar.” She enjoys the biting anger in her voice.

Bren looks to her carefully, and then sighs. “Oh, Lavorre.” He sounds a little helpless. “I’m… I’m sorry it’s all coming to this.”

Jester stares for a moment at his lovely face, and how it crumples in front of her. He’s not vulnerable like this in front of _anybody else_ , and she cherishes that. It was truly a… a lovely month. “Remember that day in my house?” Her voice is a little quiet. “You said that I could have you.”

Bren leans close, pressing his forehead against hers. Everything feels strange, _dreamlike_ , in this moment. The curtains seem to shift and sway slower than is possible, and Jester closes her eyes, listening to Bren’s trembling exhale. He sounds so _miserable_ , and she wants to murmur, _My lord. Mine. I’ll be with you until the end._ “I’m sorry I lied,” Bren whispers, his voice pained. “One day you’re going to live in a manor of your own, Lavorre, built by all your talent and dreams, and you’ll have all the men you want.” His voice breaks just a little, but he waits for her to open her eyes before continuing to speak. “You won’t even think of me, I promise.” 

Jester shakes her head, smiling. _Oh, Bren._ Selfish, but not. Honest, but not. Hers, but not. “That’s another lie.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Bren says. His voice is so fucking gentle. “You could just forget, Jester, and live a good life, the one you were supposed to. The one where you never met me and I never derailed your life.” He sounds so _upset_ , and Jester wonders how much he hates himself on a daily basis that his cloying arrogance purposefully hides.

She stares at his face, so open and lost and _wistful_. “You weren’t the only one who was ruined the second Lady Aucoin dragged me into your throne room, Bren.” Jester’s voice is tender.

“I never intended to ruin you.” He tries to smile. “I truly didn’t.”

_Oh, Bren._ Jester runs a thumb across his cheekbone, and he leans into her touch. _Selfish, but not._ She pulls her hand away, and his eyes follow the movement, but then she comes close, and pulls him into an embrace. He stills for a moment, before he raises his arms around her too. “One day I’ll come back for you,” she promises, feeling her heart break for the thousandth time. It’s _real_ now, it’s becoming _real_. One month with him isn’t _nearly_ enough. “One day I’ll be strong enough, and I’ll be clever enough, and I’ll come back for you.”

“You don’t have to,” Bren sighs.

Jester nearly scoffs. “I _know_ , Bren.” She hesitates for a moment, pulling back so he can see her face. “You… you chose me, you know? I know it seems like you’ve just… hurt me, but you chose me. You chose me over your freedom. You chose me over yourself.” She gives him a weak smile. “I’m fucking coming back for you.”

“It… you aren’t obligated to save me, Lavorre.” His eyes search her face.

Jester smiles. “Neither were you, but you _did_. Even though your teacher scared you.” Bren stiffens, and Jester sighs. She… she thinks she’s going to murder that old man one day. Murder him for Bren, so he never has to feel this frightened again. “I can tell that he scares you, I’m _really_ good at reading people.”

“Lavorre…” Bren sounds a little desperate.

“You saved me, and I think I know why, so.” Jester smiles at him, tilting her head slightly. “I’m coming back for you.” He stares at her, and she pulls him close again, kissing him before pulling away.

This is literal _fucking_ hell, but she gets up, giving him a tight smile. “I’ll see you at the ceremony, okay?” Her eyes rake over his frame once more—his coiffed hair, his gentle expression, his lovely cape pooling to the ground, his intricate coat, his velvet gloves. _Beautiful_. She imagines him at their wedding someday, his face looking at her tenderly as he puts a ring on her finger and pulls _her_ close against him for a kiss. _Gods_ , it’s fucking painful.

“Okay,” Bren says, and he winces as she pulls her hand away. _Oh_ , that isn’t fair. It fucking hurts to breathe.

Jester gives him a helpless smile as she walks out the room, waving at him as she exits.“Don’t look in the _bag_ ,” she says out loud, smiling as she moves to leave.

“I won’t,” he whispers, and she walks out the doorway, and down the hall, and into the throne room, gone, gone, _gone._

* * *

Bren exhales through his teeth, standing beside Master Ikithon as they wait for the right cue for them to begin making their way up to the platform where the two priests wait. One for Pelor, one for the Luxon. Bren goes over his vows in High Drow again in his head. The fucking _last_ thing he wants is to make a stumbling fool out of himself in front of all of Den Theylas. Most of them already seem to dislike him enough as it is.

“This is an honourable thing you’re doing,” Master Ikithon says, standing beside him. Bren winces, looking away, and Master Ikithon sighs. “You should be _thankful_ —consider how much _worse_ it could be. He could have been old, and hideous, and cruel. Essik Theylas is exhausting, but a gentleman. His study of magic is _important_ to the Empire, my boy, it’s important you keep him close. Keep him happy.”

Bren’s hands clench into fists beside him, and he averts his gaze, his jaw clenching slightly at Master Ikithon’s cloying words. “I understand,” Bren says, briskly. Essik Theylas _could_ have been worse. He _is_ grateful. He’s doing a duty for his nation, and through this, he’s managed to save the woman he loves from a life of imprisonment. This _is_ honourable. Maybe the… maybe the most honourable thing he’s ever done. The thought makes him want to bark out a laugh.

“Of course,” Master Ikithon continues, “inviting your mistress”—Bren tenses, and grimaces at _mistress_ —“to your wedding where very important diplomats are present is significantly _less_ honourable.” His voice is slightly _seething_. “The front seat, Ermendrud?” He grabs Bren’s arm, and jerks him close. Bren winces at the cool sort of rage on his face. “This behaviour is very typical of _Eodwulf_ , but when I gave you this post, I figured you’d be _above_ such antics.”

Bren flinches at his harsh tone, muscles tense in anticipation for a pulse of necrotic energy, but Master Ikithon just shakes his head with disgust, pulling Bren forward and intertwining their arms in the proper ceremonial position to lead him up to the platform. “I’m sorry,” Bren says, hating how his voice is slightly shaking.

Ikithon just looks forward, his jaw tense. “Just don’t embarrass us both further.” Bren winces, imagining his reaction to Jester’s dress, and forces himself to still and stop trembling to Ikithon’s cold touch.

Bren finally hears the voice of Hans in his mind with the _Message_ cantrip, and his back straightens up. _It’s your cue, my lord_. Ikithon notices his shift in movement, and begins to drag him down the small doorway, and Bren stumbles, but he evens out his footfalls as he begins to see other people. 

“Don’t embarrass yourself,” Master Ikithon repeats, and Bren realizes he’s forgetting to smile. He allows a languid smile to play on his face, looking to all the people sitting in the various tables, watching him with keen eyes. Jevan and Imrae Theylas smile at him with their reserved faces, and Bren nods to him. He remembers how _unimpressed_ they were when Master Ikithon introduced them, Imrae’s jaw clenching slightly when he smiled at her. They look lovely right now—Imrae’s hair is embedded with beautiful jewels, and she’s wearing an elegant purple dress that glitters with little pearls along the side. Jevan wears an elegant black suit beside her, his hair slicked back, and his dark eyes are considering. They seem happy, at least—he supposes he’s glad for that. They _should_ be happy, it’s their only son’s wedding day.

He can see Brada and Dinin sitting with Essik’s parents, and they both also smile at him. He gives them a charming smile back, and sees Zeerith pull at his mother’s arm, commanding her attention. They seem to _glow_ together, and Bren’s averts his gaze, almost desperately seeking out Jester. _Gottverdammt_ , he’s _never_ going to have this with her, he’s _never_ —

The throne room looks wonderful, with all the chandeliers and lights and spectacle, but he ignores all of that, all of these other people, as he sees Jester sitting up in her front table, with her simple red dress. She looks fucking _divine_ under the bright arcane lights. Her hair is done up in a lovely bun, exposing her elegant freckled neck, and the makeup around her eyes makes them look dark and inviting. She smiles at him brightly, rubbing her neck with her hands—the matching nail polish to her dress causes his eyes to follow the movement—and she bites her lip, her eyes raking over him once more, like they did in the dressing room. _Hi_ , she mouths.

He opens his mouth to greet her back, but then Master Ikithon’s grip tightens on him, and they continue forward. “ _Red_ ,” Master Ikithon hisses, though his face looks completely pleasant, and Bren’s eyes dart up to Essik staring at him with an eyebrow playfully raised. He’s wearing his own red cape and mantle, and his robes are long and flowing, ripping slightly in the air in a way that kind of defies the laws of reality. This strange _dunamancy_ Master Ikithon is so obsessed with resides in him, and other practitioners of this mysterious magic, but Bren can’t bring himself to care about all that right now. The only mystery he gives a fuck about are the constellations Jester’s brown face makes with her freckles. Essik’s robes are red and black—though, the black is glittering and Bren thinks he might see something like the inky night sky in those folds—and he knows the source of Master Ikithon’s ire.

No one else besides Bren, Essik and Jester are wearing red. It’s a sacred colour in Kryn culture, preserved for the grooms in marital practices.

Jester Lavorre is making a _nuisance_ of herself, and Bren has enabled it. He really didn’t think Essik would be annoyed by it—the man can take a joke on his behalf, and then he plays to _win_ — and Bren can see by the smug smile playing on Essik’s lips that he’s not truly offended. That’s… that’s good. It would’ve been _awful_ if Bren was wrong, and Essik were horrified—but it wouldn’t change anything. He’d still choose Jester Lavorre.

Master Ikithon _finally_ lets go of Bren’s arm, and Bren walks up the stage. He’s trembling slightly, almost _imperceptibly_ , but from Jester’s frown in the corner of his eye and Essik’s slightly furrowed eyebrows, he can tell the two in red have noticed the flaws in his performance.

“You alright?” Essik murmurs quietly, raising a white eyebrow. Bren stares at his soon-to-be husband, with his carefully coiffed white hair and smooth dark brown skin and careful smile. He seems to be genuinely asking, his eyes flitting slightly to look at where Master Ikithon was holding him.

“Fine,” Bren says, his voice halting. Jester’s crossing her arms now, and _glaring_ openly at Master Ikithon. Bren almost wants to smile at her, reassure her he’s really okay, but he can’t. Not in front of all these people. He embarrassed Essik enough on his wedding day.

_Their_ wedding day. Oh, _gods._

Essik reaches out, offering him his hand. Bren almost mirrors the movement, but then remembers to pull off his glove. He does so smoothly, and tries to ignore Essik’s careful eyes following his movement, seeing for the first time his ruined fingers. Bren averts his gaze, and clasps his own hand against his. Essik is cool against him, and his skin is soft. Bren tries not to _burn_ with embarrassment, and Essik looks like he’s about to open his mouth and say something, before the Pelor priest begins the rites. A red ribbon ties their hands together, and Bren bows his head subserviently as the priest talks in Zemnian.

“Bren und Essik, sind Sie freiwillig und bereiten Herzens gekommen, um miteinander die Ehe einzugehen?” the priest says, and Bren feels unexpectedly emotional, remembering sitting in the church with his parents while his aunt got married. _This time_ , his mother sighed. _This one will last_. His father gave her a _look_ , and the two of them pursed their lips together to repress their smiles.

“Ja,” Essik murmurs.

“… Ja.” Bren tries to make his voice confident, and from how Essik’s hand tightens momentarily on his in comfort, he doesn’t think he succeeded. _Scheisse_. He closes his eyes for just a second. _For once, get your act together, Ermendrud._

“Wollen Sie einander lieben und achten und die Treue halten bis dass der Tod euch scheidet?” the priest says, his voice clear and echoing through the throne room. Despite all the people staring at him, it has never felt so _empty._

“Ja,” Essik says, meeting Bren’s gaze. He says it slowly, meaningfully.

Bren blinks at him, and then gives him a weak smile. “Ja,” he mutters.

The ceremony continues, and Bren meets Jester’s gaze from the corner of his eye. She smiles at him shyly, and he exhales, looking back to Essik. Essik watches his movement, but he doesn’t seem angry, or even disappointed—he looks _worried_ , and Bren gives him an encouraging smile. He doesn’t know _why_ he’s trying to reassure _Essik_ , but he does, and Essik’s shoulders slightly untense. Bren feels… _hopelessly_ lost, and he thinks of Jester’s bag to try to ground himself. It’s okay. The bag. Nothing is truly over until he can open that _fucking_ bag.

Eventually, it’s the Luxon priest’s turn, and they begin to exchange their vows in High Drow. Bren repeats his after Essik’s with careful, clipped enunciation, and from Essik’s slight nods as he speaks, he can tell he doesn’t totally embarrass himself. The Luxon priest slowly undoes the red ribbon, and brings forth two gold rings.

Essik reaches for one, and gently takes Bren’s hand. Bren is very, very still as he feels the ring slide down his finger. Essik’s hand holds his ruined one tenderly, and all this gentleness makes Bren want to maybe _snap_ , perhaps show him the guard with his injuries from the fucking _furniture_. Show them all _exactly_ what kind of asshole the lord of the Zemni Fields is.

Bren doesn’t do this. Instead, he holds Essik’s hand in his own, and puts the ring on Essik’s finger. When the priest says that they may kiss each other, he pulls Essik close, a hand along his waist, pulling his robes closer. Bren closes his eyes and leans close, and imagines for a moment someone else. Someone with freckled skin and a bright smile and curly hair. He kisses Jester Lavorre, and imagines their lives together, dancing and kissing each other and maybe raising a child some day.

Essik’s lips are soft, and Bren pulls away, opening his eyes. The illusion is shattered, and he exhales through his teeth.

He looks to the people watching, and smiles, bracing himself for the rest of his life. Essik sighs beside him, and Bren can’t even bring himself to be apologetic for being such an awful groom. He’s a piece of shit that way.

* * *

Jester _truly_ fucking hates herself sometimes. She knows this, because watching Essik’s lips against Bren’s is literal fucking hell, and she can’t look away. She sits at a table near the front with some very fancy royal Kryn guests that _aren’t_ Essik’s parents—she’s relieved, she hasn’t _missed_ the daggers Imrae Theylas’ eyes has been throwing her all night, and she’s been smiling brightly in response, but she doesn’t want to _engage_ with this woman—and these guests aren’t speaking with her. It’s alright. Jester tries to enjoy the food. It’s kind of impossible to focus on, but it tastes _good,_ she supposes. Everything feels tinged with bitterness tonight, and she tries not to scowl too miserably at the plate.

Essik’s eyes slide over to her, and Jester gives him a mean smile. His languid smile widens, and Jester watches as his hand tightens around Bren’s. Their matching gold rings kind of glitter a little under the light of the twinkling chandeliers, and Jester averts her gaze, frowning. She remembers her intent gaze towards her mother, who stared at her with her eyebrows creased. _He’s mine until he’s married_. She supposes she should leave now, but _merde_ , it’s fucking _impossible_ to _leave_. Bren is sitting with Essik’s parents, and that teacher who was holding onto him too tight— _fuck_ that Master Ikithon who’s stolen Bren’s hand, who frightens Bren more than anything else she’s seen in this life—and he’s smiling, and laughing, and rubbing elbows, and looking absolutely _miserable_.

Essik is leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes glittering as he considers her. He _knows_ , he has to _know_. He tilts his head at her, and Jester pushes her chair back. The people sitting with her look to her, startled and annoyed by her dress, and she beams at them, jumping to her feet and walking down the middle of the room, out the throne room. She keenly feels eyes on her back, and holds her head up high. Jester walks to the double doors, and turns, meeting Bren’s stricken eyes watching her carefully. She tilts her head and gives her a coy look, much like she did that first day, with Lady Aucoin. He looks a little _shattered_ watching her leave, and she gives him a gentle smile, closing the door behind her.

Jester strolls down the front of the manor, walking with her black boots clicking against the pavement. She leaves through the open front gates, looking up at the starry night sky. It looks a little like Essik’s robes, and she sighs, walking along the outer stone wall of the manor. She leans against it, and closes her eyes, tilting her head up to feel the cool night air against her skin.

She feels her hair move as a gust of air brushes past her, and she opens one eye, to see someone materialize out of the darkness. Jester tilts her head, staring at Essik lean against the wall beside her, the red of his robes dull in the moonlight. He stares out at the rolling hills of Blumenthal, a considering tilt to his face.

“Cool trick,” Jester says, softly. “I can do it too.” His eyes flit to her, and she smirks at the red in his robes. “Sorry about that, you know. I’m not… really mad about _you_.” She thinks of Essik tightening his grip on Bren’s hand, and she scowls a little. “I’m a _little_ mad at you. Shouldn’t you be with your _husband_?” She tries not to sound too bitter.

Essik smirks, looking to her. “Even grooms need some fresh air, Lavorre.” So he knows who she is. Jester supposes an important diplomat marrying an important noble would do their due research.

“I… I like how your robes glitter,” she sighs, trying to think of something nice she could possibly say. She… it _is_ his wedding. Jester can rest well knowing how she made Bren moan in between him signing those invitations. Her lips twist at that thought, and she resists the urge to bark out a bitter laugh. Well, _no_ —she _can’t_ rest well. Jester Lavorre had Bren Aldric Ermendrud for a beautiful month, and Essik Theylas gets to be married with him for the rest of his life.

“Thank you. This type of magic is what makes me so interesting to your rulers.” Essik grins at her, his dark brown eyes raking over her curly hair falling out of her bun, and the cloth of her dress bunched up in her hands, and her pendant along her neck. “I have something they want, you see.”

“Oh, I thought perhaps it might be love.” Jester looks away, not wanting to see his clever eyes dancing on her. Jester doesn’t want to see the face he makes as he examines his husband’s… his husband’s what? His _mistress_? She kind of _hates_ that.

Essik reaches out his hand out from the glittering darkness of the inside of his cape, and runs a hand lazily through his coiffed white hair. _He really is beautiful_ , Jester thinks, with his searching eyes and perfect smooth brown skin and his smug smile. She stares at the trees, at the leaves rustling against the whipping of the wind. _At least Bren was forced to marry someone he can stand to look at, unlike Mama._ “Lord Ermendrud is fun,” Essik admits. “Not many people invite their mistress to their wedding.”

“I think,” Jester begins, hating the sting of _mistress_ , hating how he saw her insecurity on her fucking face, “you might actually find some contentment here.” Essik raises his head at her, and she finally looks back at him. “He’s smart, and funny, and kind. But he’s never going to love you.” Her voice is _sure_ on this —there are many things she doubts, but she doesn’t doubt that she’s the love of Bren Aldric Ermendrud’s life. He’s… selfish, but he wasn’t for her, and he hasn’t done that for anybody else. She feels almost _boastful_ , talking about all these things he’s exposed to her, trusted with her. “I don’t know if you care about that but… you should know.”

“… Kind,” Essik muses, leaning back against the wall. “You’re the first one who’s called him _kind_.” Jester feels both a thrill and an annoyance at the doubt in his voice. His eyes watch her. “Is a man truly _kind_ if he’s only generous with the woman he loves?” Jester’s heart jumps a little at _loves_ —it’s kind of addicting to hear and see other people acknowledge his affection for her. “Is he merciful if he only shows mercy to the lady who consumes his thoughts?” Essik shakes his head. “Let me tell you something—I’ve met a lot of mages, and I’ve never met a mage worth anything who was very kind.”

“You’ve never met this one.” Jester is _sure_ that Bren is more kind than he is not. “Your husband is kind.”

Essik studies her quietly, and she stares back at him with that even smile playing on her lips. Finally, he leans off the wall, and adjusts his cape slightly. “I hope you stick around,” he says, his voice conversational. “You’re coming up, but I hope you stick around. I can give you access to all the _Teleportation Circle_ installations in the major cities.” He’s looking at the wall like he’s about to cast _Dimension Door_ again and leave her alone in the dark.

Jester furrows her eyebrows at him, trying to understand what he’s intending behind his words. Mages _love_ double meanings, she’s beginning to realize. “ _What_ —”

Essik gives her an indulgent smile. “My wedding present to him.” He looks back out to the fields, his gaze considering. “I hope you can bring yourself to stay, Lavorre.”

“… Why would I _stay_? I’m the _mistress_.” Jester sneers at him. Her patience is slowly running out, and this day has been _exhausting_. “As you so kindly pointed out.” 

Essk looks at her evenly. “Then, _don’t_. I don’t have to be kind to _you_ , Lavorre.” He pauses, like he’s weighing what else to say. Finally, he exhales, his jaw clenching slightly. “I’m just doing what I wish someone would do for me, if there was someone out there who I… who I loved.” Jester sees Essik’s face finally crack for a moment, and sees genuine annoyance, along with… something else. Something a little pained. “Then, _don’t_. Who knows, he’s very clever—maybe he’ll learn one day to not resent me.”

Jester… _sighs,_ playing with her pendant. “This is my home,” she finally mutters. “Whether I stay or go has nothing to do with _him_ , and I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.” _Mama_ , she thinks. She’s a born traveler at heart, but she’ll always come home.

Essik hums under his breath. “I suppose that’s all I wanted from this.” He gives her a long look. “I can’t say this was _pleasant_ , but… have a good night, Madame Lavorre.”

Jester blinks at him. “I don’t know your title,” she murmurs. “Sir?”

Essik seems almost faintly amused. “Well, it’s _Lord_ Theylas now.” She scowls slightly, and he smirks back at her, beginning to walk back into the wall. Jester watches him disappear into that inky, glittering darkness full of stars, and sighs as he moves.

“Don’t hurt him,” she says, as he slowly disappears.

Essik looks back, his handsome face peering from the blackness. “He must only be that delicate with you.” Jester widens her eyes, but before she can bask in that observation, he leans back in, and he’s _gone_.

Jester stares where he disappeared. She wonders for a moment who the fuck Bren is, when he isn’t with her. She knows he’s the _worst_ , but he’s kind and funny and human, and no one else seems to think so. Jester thinks she may have gotten a slight taste of it, when he scolded her for mentioning the Traveler to him, but _even_ _then._ He seemed mostly angry and afraid _for_ her. No one else agrees with her on Bren’s nature, no one else sees his redeeming qualities amongst his worst, not even Bren. He asked her to _forget_ about him, as if that’s even remotely possible.

It would be… easier, if she could just let go of him, but Bren just married someone he didn’t love so she could have a real chance to lift her and her mother out of their small, cramped house that shakes with the wind. She can’t… she _wants_ to see the goodness in him. Someone should.

Jester exhales through her teeth, and runs a hand through her curly hair as she begins to make her way down the dirt road. _My lord_ , she thinks, a little possessively. She closes her eyes against the night breeze. _You laughed at my joke. You’re supposed to hate people like me, and you laughed at my joke._ Bren… Bren deserves a life with good jokes. She thinks he deserves better than Essik, deserves someone who cares enough to make him laugh, like _he_ cares enough to do things for _her_. Like to invite her to this wedding, at his own expense. Essik won’t care enough to make him laugh.

Jester begins to make her way along the pathway to her house, the boots getting dirty and scuffed. She has _no idea_ what’s about to happen next. She has no idea if he’ll visit her house ever again, or if Essik will allow him to, and as sure as she was to Essik that Bren wouldn’t love him… she imagines them decades later, with white in their hair, maybe with children, falling into a comfortable rhythm with each other. It’s _ridiculous_ , they don’t seem like the domestic type, but… stranger things have happened. The lord of the Zemni Fields wasn’t supposed to fall in love with a poor painter like her.

Jester hums under her breath, opening her door with a key and then closing it behind her. She leans back against the door for a moment, before she walks up the stairs, pausing by her mother’s room to kiss a sleeping Marion on her forehead. She tries to imagine the worst case scenario as she takes off her dress and thinks about how much _easier_ this would be with Bren’s clever fingers aiding her. Bren, with a child that looks vaguely like Essik, teaching him how to make pretty _Dancing Lights_. Essik, in Bren’s rumpled clothing, making tea in the morning, Frumpkin is in his arms. He looks… he looks content, in her imagination. It’s… it’s fucking _possible_ , Bren’s a good liar. He could lie himself into this. He could pretend at domesticity.

She can’t fault him for that, he could really be happy. Jester sighs, putting on her pajamas and sinking into her bed. It feels lonely, without Bren curled next to her.

Is it… is it _cruel_ , to take this future from him? For her? A penniless heretic from a traitor family? She feels fear well up in her throat, and she exhales through her teeth. _No_. He choose her over the freedom of the fields, when he was far away from Rexxentrum and all those _fucking_ archmages. He gave her _options_.

She’s… she’s going to do the same. One day, she’ll come back to his manor, and she’ll offer him a real choice. She’s going to save him like he saved her.

_I’ll help you_ , the Traveler says, gently. _Now rest, child_.

Jester closes her eyes, thinking of Bren’s face when she turned around in the throne room, and falls into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

Bren looks to the faded bag in the corner. He can’t… if he _looks_ , then it’s _over_ , and he doesn’t want this month to be over. He stares at it miserably, and looks to the gold band around his finger. _It’s over, regardless,_ he thinks dispassionately, even as his eyes are a little wet. _She got you a gift, she wants you to look_.

He hesitantly walks over to it, and before he loses his nerve, forces it open with his hands. He stares in with a trembling breath, and the sight makes him sink to the couch, his knees weak.

Her faded brown boots.

Bren grabs them, and holds them close, feeling his entire body trembling. _Get it together_ , he breathes. _Please get it together. Won’t you get it together?_ He remembers Jester’s face when she promised she’d save him, and he forces himself to even out his breath. He puts the boots back in the bag, and leaves them on the couch, leaving the room to wander the empty halls. 

Essik is talking with his parents, and Bren will join in a moment. Right now, he simply stares out at the moon from his window, and closes his eyes to the gentle light. _Jester’s lips against his_. He imagines Jester’s lips against _his_ , and he wipes his tears away roughly with his hand, before reaching out for his glove and putting it on, over the ring.

He joins Essik.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to smokeandjollyranchers for helping the scene in Trent Ikithon's office, the scene with Bren and Jester discussing in the dressing room and the scene outside the manor with Jester and Essik.
> 
> Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more.  
> Men were deceivers ever,  
> One foot in sea, and one on shore,  
> To one thing constant never.  
> Then sigh not so, but let them go,  
> And be you blithe and bonny,  
> Converting all your sounds of woe  
> Into hey nonny, nonny. 
> 
> —William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing


End file.
